Connection
by Raven's Wing
Summary: Go to hell, Jack Kelly.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Jessa belongs to Stress. She is just letting me borrow her because she is super nice.

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**A/N**: So this is the world's longest one-shot. It is an odd pairing that I have always had nestled in the back of my mind as something I'd like to play with. It is a modern fic (guilty pleasure) and told in the present tense. I just couldn't get it to feel right in the past tense. Also it is a little outside of my usual style. Basically what I am trying to say is it is just one huge experiment. I'm not sure how I feel about it over all, but I'd love to get some feedback on it.

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**Warning**: PG-15 (language, non-explicit sex, adult situations)

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It's not raining yet, but you can tell it will be soon. The gray clouds are nothing new, but the expression they wear today say they're ready to piss on the world beneath them and she can't blame them. The way the fog hangs heavily in the air doesn't help the grim setting. Walking through the mist gets you wet even if you carry an umbrella. Perfect weather for the worst day of her life.

She had decided to talk a walk now because…? Shit. Foresight has never been her strongpoint. If it was she probably would have been able to avoid all of the motivators that led her to believe that taking a stroll in this weather was a good idea.

Ironic thing is that knowing all of this, she just keeps walking further from her home. If foresight hadn't been her strongpoint up until then, why try to change her track record? What would her friends joke about if they couldn't pick on her inability to make up her mind?

She knows that New York has never liked her. Why else would the weather be so terrible when she needs to take a walk? This belief is preferential to her just having bad luck, or worse, that she just isn't good enough. She can blame it on the city as long as she never leaves and she doesn't have any plans in her immediate future to do so. New York despises her.

Her belief is confirmed for the thirty-millionth time today half way across the East river on the Brooklyn Bridge when she sees _him_.

Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, former schoolmate and self made millionaire, is leaning back against the railing, one hand in his pocket, and the other smoking a cigarette. He seems to be taking in the cars and cabs as they speed past. No one else was on the bridge. They were all smart enough to stay in and away from this miserable weather. However, of all the people she thought possible that she might see tonight – he wasn't in her top ten. Hell. He wasn't even on the list.

He is close. Only about fifteen feet away. The fog hid him from her earlier, but now she can see him clearly. Does he see her? Maybe it isn't too late to leave unnoticed.

"Nice day for a walk." She jumps a little at the sound of his voice above the traffic.

It is simple, and even without personal acknowledgement, she knows he is talking to her. She knows that he knew she was there before his greeting and he probably knew it was she. How in the hell he knows, she has no clue. She swears he never even so much as flinched in her direction - much less looked at her.

Somehow he _always_ knows. Maybe _that_ is why he is the millionaire.

"I thought you quit smoking." She replies over the sound of the cars rushing by them on either side.

Smug bastards in their closed vehicles. They know better than to walk in, what looks to be momentarily, a torrential downpour. Maybe New York just doesn't hate them as much as it hates her.

"I did." Is all he says as he unfolds from the railing and tosses the smoking butt off of the elevated walkway.

Casually he saunters closer to her and she feels her pulse increase. Instinctively her hand goes for her mace in her coat pocket, but she doesn't pull it out. Though his walk is predatory – he isn't _that_ kind of threat. At least he'd never been in the past. He just always moves like he is going in for the kill.

"Manhattan's the other way." He pulls a flat silver case from his pocket, opens it, and offers her a cigarette.

She'd quit, too.

Nothing quite completes a lonely, pathetic walk in shitty weather like the fresh burn of nicotine. If you are going to be miserable you might as well make a complete picture of it. Right? Quitting is over rated. After all – the person who wants her to quit is the person who started her habit in the first place. Her life is just too fucking ironic.

She doesn't have time to fumble in her purse for a lighter. A flame pushes its way under her nose and the first choking burn of nicotine fills her lungs. The silver lighter that matches the cigarette case disappears as quickly as it appears and he is smoking a fresh cigarette. The expensive kind you can't get in the states. One of those fancy thin imports that he probably bought overseas himself just because he can. He always has had a flair for the dramatic.

"It's been awhile, Spot." Awhile? Try five years. "How do you know I don't live in Brooklyn now?" she lets his old moniker slip from her lips along with a breath of smoke.

They lean against the railing. She looks at him. The trademark smirk is on his face now, full force and fatal.

"I know you don't." He says.

The way he says it tells her he knows _exactly_ where she lives – down to the apartment number and what kind of lock she has on her door. Hell. He probably has a key. He's just that kind of guy. It should make her uneasy, but somehow it is expected. Always calm, always cool, always in control. Probably pretty easy to be in control when you are rich enough to bribe every official in the city.

"It _has_ been awhile." Awhile? Maybe it had been six years. "Haven't had someone call me Spot in years." The smirk is gone, replaced by a far away look. It's too blank to be romanticising the past and too hollow to be vulnerability, but the look is far more human than she is used to seeing him.

In fact - she doesn't remember ever seeing that in him before. Then again she hasn't seen him except for the occasional headline since she and Jack were together and _that_ was a long time ago. She never has understood the multifaceted Brooklyn boy, always the last to come and the first to leave at any gathering – she'd been too enamoured in Jack to really pay close attention. Had that humanity always been there and she had been too busy to notice it?

He almost looks sad.

Maybe New York hates him, too.

It's an awkward silence, and she is bad at small talk. Her mother had tried to teach her how to be a lady, how to carry polite conversation, but it never really worked out. She was always little too clumsy, a little too impulsive, and followed her heart a little too closely. Caught on the coat tails of the feminist movement – she'd shunned her gender role. Occasionally she regrets it. Now is one of those times.

Casual conversation never is a problem for him, though. He oozes charisma and charm the way that most people only dream about doing. She remembers all of those dinners she had with Jack, Spot and whoever-the-hell Spot was dating at the time. He'd always been so natural, so at ease, and always knew how to insert just enough uncomfortable dialogue and silences to keep the conversation on edge. Secretly she is sure that he enjoys watching her squirm and she tries to look overly interested in the process of smoking. It just makes her even clumsier.

"What brings you to my side of town?" She doesn't miss how he calls it _his_ side of town. Like he owns it. Like by her being in it – he owns her, too.

Why is she here?

Distraction?

Nostalgia?

Masochism?

"Just taking a walk. I like the view." She looks around and all she sees is a thick wall of fog. Can't even see ten feet in front of them. Great. Nice alibi. He catches her mistake with a flick of his eyebrow and she tries to cover. "It wasn't this bad when I started." Another lie. Another suspicious eyebrow. It's been like this all day. "What are _you_ doing out here?" If she can't cover her own mistakes she might as well try to distract attention from them.

"I thought I'd jump." Talk about changing topics.

He doesn't look like he is joking either.

He looks at her and laughs. It isn't forced, but it is performed with a rehearsed ease. He still went for the reaction. Good to know that something about him hadn't changed. She wants to tell him that it isn't funny and lecture him about the seriousness of the situation, but she can't bring herself to care enough to do so. When had she become so apathetic?

Emotionally detached and aloof during high school – if any of the old crew would be suicidal now it would be Spot Conlon. Add that to now being rich as hell and you have the perfect formula for an eccentric millionaire. He'd shot to the top as an internet mogul while the rest of them, she included, traipsed off to college. She'd followed Jack to an instate university and he dumped her at the end of that first semester of her junior year. In her naive mind she'd expected that they would last forever, but Jack had proved her wrong. Two years her senior and out-of-her-league – it always had been too good to be true.

Five years of being his didn't leave her unmarked by his tutelage. He'd taught her how to drink, smoke, and fuck. Two out of three things she still does on a regular basis even though he has since cleaned up his act.

Nothing worse than a reformed junkie telling you how good it feels to be a changed person. No. She takes that back. Nothing worse than having a reformed junkie, who happens to be your ex, preach to you about how you need to clean up the habits he gave you. So young and eager to please her first serious boyfriend - she'd picked up those habits. Now she refuses to give them up just to piss him off. Probably the same reason she isn't where everyone expected her to be tonight.

"Were you invited?" He asks and she looks at him dumbly. Is he reading her mind?

"To the wedding?" She hates when people answer questions with a question and mentally kicks herself.

"I wasn't." He answers before she can follow through with the normal pattern of conversation and a faint smirk plays across his lips. "Not surprising. Ol' Jacky boy and I didn't part on the best of terms."

She remembers that.

She had to take Jack to the emergency room. Thirteen stitches for a gash on his forehead, two more for his lip, and a broken nose which resulted in two black eyes. Yeah – she could see why Spot wasn't invited though she never did find out what caused the fight. Jack never told her much past the fact that Spot had been the opponent. Instead she accepted the fact that they would no longer be going on double-dates.

"I was." She thinks of the silver and gold invitation stuffed in the back of her coupon drawer.

"Gauging that you are here, I take that you aren't planning on going." He pries.

"I didn't RSVP in time."

Truth to be told - she is expected even if she didn't RSVP. She just doesn't want to go.

It is going to be a beautiful wedding. The bridesmaids' dresses were made in Paris and the bride's dress was hand sewn China silk. Her brother David is the best man and her brother Les is an usher. Her parents are sitting where Jack's would have been if they were alive. She had been offered the job of handing out programs at the door, but there was a bus she'd rather step in front of. She isn't bitter – she just hates the feeling that people felt sorry for her.

The cell phone in her purse is off but once she turned it on she is ensured to have several messages asking where she is, if she is okay, and what she is doing. She will be lucky if they don't have a full-fledged search party out looking for her by the end of the evening. She doesn't want to face them then, now, or ever. Can the world end now? Please?

"You didn't even send a gift, did you?" His voice holds teasing accusation which she doesn't appreciate and she shoots a glare at him. "I'd have thought better of you Sarah Jacobs." The ease with which her name slips off of his lips sends a shiver down her spine.

He turns towards her and takes a long final drag off of his cigarette. She watches him. The way he smokes is like a work of art, practically choreographed. Maybe he practices in front of a mirror before going out in public.

"If you're so great, what did you send?" Indignant.

"A toaster."

"That's all?" Maybe it was dipped in gold and crusted in precious stones.

"That and a business card for the best divorce lawyer in town."

"Oh."

Only he would be so déclassé as to do something like that.

She wishes she'd thought of it first.

The sky is getting darker. She looks up and is greeted with the first sprinkles of rain on her face. Home. She needs to go home.

"Let's walk." He nods his head in the direction of Brooklyn and she follows. They are closer to Brooklyn than Manhattan anyway. She'll take the subway once they got across.

By the time they get off the bridge it is pouring rain. Before she could turn towards the subway terminal he cups her elbow and leads her to the side of the road and hailed a cab. Within an instant of him waving his arm one of the yellow army pulls over and he opens the door for her. Stiffly she climbs in and slides across. If this ends up badly – she'll blame it on New York or her lack of foresight. Hell. Maybe both.

"Where to?" the cab driver asks and he gives him the address. She recognizes it, but it isn't her place. It is his.

She isn't sure if she should be relieved or terrified. Maybe both? Damn her indecisive nature.

She steals a glance in his direction. He still looks put together and expensive even though he is soaking wet. Maybe that is why designer clothes are so pricey – they come equipped for all conditions. Or maybe it is just because he always looks good no matter what he wears. Wait. Where did that thought come from?

He looks her way and catches her staring. She had been staring? The smirk is there and now she is embarrassed because he's staring back. The problem with this is her clothes are cheap and they look even cheaper now that they are soaked through. The thin material on her jacket and long sleeve t-shirt does little to hide anything and she self-consciously crosses her arms across her chest.

She knows about Spot and his habits with women. Those headline with pictures often featured him with his flavor of the week. One of the most eligible bachelors in New York, millionaire by twenty, and with a propensity to attract paparazzi with his assorted choice of arm candy – it wasn't hard to watch him from afar. Now he is in a cab with an English major and struggling waitress who hadn't spoken to him in years. Was this all because he felt sorry for her, too? The idea that he pitied her would have sparked an indignant burn a year ago, but tonight it does little more than create a dull ache. Better a dull ache than nothing at all, right? Who is she trying to kid?

She looks away but is painfully aware that he doesn't take his eyes off of her the entire taxi ride.

When they finally arrive – she can't get out of that taxi fast enough. It is hard to be nonchalant when you are the focus of so much attention. She's not used to it, and it is intoxicating. When he touches the small of her back – she jumps slightly from the intensity of it. Nothing to make you aware of your body quite like having someone stare at it for twenty minutes.

It is the same doorman that was there when she used to come here with Jack. He doesn't seem to recognize her as he acknowledges Spot with a nod and greeting. Spot returns the greeting by name. Frank, the doorman's name is Frank. Had she known that? She wonders how many times Frank has seen Spot bring different women back to this place. The she also wonders just exactly what Frank is now thinking of her accompanying Spot to his home. What exactly _is_ she doing accompanying him? She feels sick.

"You don't have to come upstairs if you don't want to." It's low, soft, and sincere – in front of open elevator doors. Is she so pathetically easy to read? Furthermore – since when did he care?

Everything else aside though, it is one of the better ideas she has heard today. Go home to a cat, Ben and Jerry Chunky Monkey, and a marathon of chick flicks. Maybe a box of tissues, too, but she already had bruised her nose and cried so much her eyes had swollen shut when Jack had dumped her the first time. And when she found out he was seeing Jessa. And when she got their wedding invitation. Yeah. She is done with crying over him, even though he still breaks her heart every time she thinks about him

Fuck Jack Kelly.

She has had years to get over him and she is done feeling guilty about having a life outside of him. Yeah right. How many times has she said that in the past?

They're inside the elevator now. She'd been the first to step inside. After all, she's cold, miserable and so damn tired of being alone – why not? Take _that_ indecision. Take _that _safe, stagnant, boring life. Take _that_ Jack Kelly.

He has to use a special key and everything to get to his floor. She'd forgotten that or had she always been too focused on Jack to notice. What a trip down memory lane. She doesn't remember signing up for that, either.

The elevator ride is fast and smooth; quick and quiet. She is dripping on the hardwood floor. The real hardwood floor. Not that cheap laminate stuff that they use on the budget design programs. She's should know. She's spent too many Saturday nights with her television watching bad design programs getting ideas for the house she will never have at the rate she's going.

Not going back to her apartment was a good decision. For now.

The elevator doors open directly into his flat. Ah top tax bracket living. Again his hand is on the small of her back, touch burning through three layers of clothing, leading her feet in the direction he wants her to go. Her soiled sneakers squeak on the expensive floor of his front entry hall.

It's eerily familiar. She has been here several times before, but never alone with Spot. She knows her way around in the sparsely decorated modern flat. Just from her vantage point it looks like nothing much has changed since the last time she'd been there. It's strangely reassuring. At least some things, besides her stagnant existence, in this crazy life stay the same.

She doesn't want to be something that stays the same anymore.

"Wait here." He instructs.

He's already toed off his designer shoes and socks before padding onto unreasonably plush white carpet, around the corner, and out of sight. For a minute she rocks back and forth onto her toes, enjoying the way the squishing noise broke the uncomfortable silence, and entertains the idea of taking off those shoes the way he already had. The longer she stands there alone the more uneasy she becomes.

What in the hell is she doing?

She is just a poor English major from upper-east Manhattan with no prospective future and no real accomplishments to her name. She is a good Jewish girl with a good Jewish grandmother who still thinks she's a virgin. He is a successful business man who lives in more money than she can imagine. A successful business man who she hasn't seen in years and is known for his philandering reputation. A reputation that looks like she is going to become a part of very soon. The elevator doors are still open behind her. She could go down and grab a cab before he got back and write this whole thing off as a bizarre cosmic mistake; or she could stay here and just see where the evening leads and be far away from where anyone would think to look for her. But she's cold, miserable, and so damn tired of being alone. She'd made up her mind back sixty floors down.

Any self-congratulating on her decision making skills is quickly replaced with a gigantic lump in her throat when he returns. Her gaze starts at his bare feet and travelled up equally bare calves. The dark curls on his legs don't hide the athletic curve of his form. The hem of a bathrobe that practically blends into the carpet, plush and impeccably white, starts just below the knee. There isn't anything scandalous about it, she's sure, but she is having trouble processing the reality of it all as he tosses something at her. She attempts to catch it, but fails. Clumsily, she picks up what seems to be a garment matching his.

"Go in the bathroom and change. Bring out your wet clothes." It isn't an offer.

She toes off her shoes as he had and goes automatically to the guest bathroom nearby – passing close enough by him to smell his cologne. Entirely unintentional but enough to send a shiver down her spine. Maybe she's paranoid, but she swears he she feels him watching her the whole way she walks to the bathroom. Thank goodness it is a short walk.

She dreads what she looks like in any decent mirror.

It is worse than she expected.

Long brown hair, wet and stringy, promising to become a massive frizzy pouf once it dries. Lipstick smears everywhere except her mouth and mascara under her eyes and down her cheeks. She looks like a washed out rock star in cheap clothes with a bad stylist. She'd keep this get-up in mind for next Halloween – Courtney Love maybe? Regardless - she's way too off-the-rack to be in this bathroom with its black marble and streamlined fixtures. Rooms in magazines don't look as nice as this.

Everything about this should be uncomfortable, but she is cold, miserable, and so damn tired of being alone that it really doesn't matter. Maybe, just maybe, he feels half as terrible as she does; and maybe, just maybe, he's as tired of that scene as she is of hers.

Even in the warm air of the apartment a chill creeps up her spine. Its flits through her mind that maybe she shouldn't take off her underwear. Virgin or not she's a good Jewish girl and this man has a reputation. But she's cold, miserable, and so damn tired of being alone. If she can at least not be cold – that would be an improvement.

Quickly she wraps herself in the fluffy robe before she has a chance to see herself naked in the mirror. She needs to join a gym. Thankfully the robe is very thick and covers her nicely. It doesn't escape her attention that it is cut for a woman. How many girls had worn this before she had?

It takes her nearly fifteen minutes to find the courage to venture out into the open. That is after she has scrubbed her face clean and pulled her mascara wand out of her purse (a little vanity isn't a crime) and pinched some color into her cheeks. She leaves her purse in the bathroom and peeks out the door. In the back of her mind she half-expects Spot to be waiting right outside the door just to scare her, but he isn't. It is a relief and a worry at the same time. If he isn't there – where is he? Down the narrow hallway towards the entry hall she creeps to where the hallway stops and opens into a spacious sunken living room. That's where she sees him.

He's lounging on a black oversized couch, apparently watching an oversized plasma screen television, in his oversized sunken living room. His dark hair is slicked back and his feet propped up the black coffee table in front of him. Totally comfortable and completely aloof. The picture sends a chill down her spine reminiscent of the one she received earlier at the smell of him.

"Give your clothes to Jerry." No greeting (had he even looked at her?), just a command with a nod of the head in the direction she should go. As if this is simple routine to him. Perhaps it is.

Dumbly – she looks in the direction he indicated. There in the entry way, with his arms already full of Spot's clothes, stands a middle-aged man in a uniform that matches Frank's from the front door. Robotically she goes to him and gives him her clothes – though he can't meet his eyes. In the handoff she is particularly careful that her unmentionables stay unseen. She is completely naked except for her robe, but she is embarrassed that someone might see her underwear. Maybe she should have just shoved it in her purse.

As soon as she is no longer holding her clothes she turns back towards Spot. He is looking at her, but the smirk she expected to be there wasn't. His expression is predatory and approving. Like she's passed a test. His test. Her knees get a little shaky and she's tempted to grab her clothes back from Jerry and escape down the elevator, but she hears the elevator doors shut. She swallows heavily at the sound. Would it be too dramatic to jump out through the window?

"Where's he taking our clothes?"

"He's going to have them dried and pressed."

"When will they be done?"

"When I tell Jerry I want them." Like just his command will dry their clothes instantly.

She wants to give a witty retort. She wants to tell him that his command alone can't make the impossible happen. She wants to rebuke him for being so smug. She wants to kiss him. Wait. Where did that come from? This is way too surreal. She's half waiting to wake up and have had it all be a dream.

"It's not polite to linger in entryways." The smirk is there now, and it is as close to an invitation to move as she is going to get from him.

And it was all she needed.

The uncertainty in the situation made her feel like she was in seventh grade all over again. Braces, bad hair, oily skin, glasses – the works. It didn't hurt that it helped to quell the uneasiness that hinted that he had time to think it over and he wanted her gone. After all – his iPhone must have the contacts of gaggles of women scores more comely than she. This all has to be a fluke, right?

Well – fluke or not – she is going to ride it for all its worth. Or at least as long as she doesn't over think it any more than she already has. Tonight – she is going to enjoy herself. Tonight – she is going to be irresponsible. Tonight – she is going to be anything but the good Jewish girl she is supposed to be. Tonight – she is going to just roll with the punches.

That is until she gets sucker punched the second she looks at the TV screen.

It's the local news and the main anchor has just handed off the baton to an on-the-scene reporter who is standing outside of a large stone cathedral. It takes her a moment to put the pieces together, but then she hears their names. Simultaneously her heart jumps into her throat and falls to her feet. How that is physiologically possible – she doesn't know and doesn't care, but at least her heart is keeping the bile in her throat from creeping into her mouth.

Of course there would be a reporter there. This is one of the biggest social events of this year. The daughter of the former New York mayor, now governor of the state, marrying the youngest representative in the state's history – it was a political match made in heaven. The ex that she never really got over and her college roommate – it was her personal emotional match made in hell.

She can't imagine anything hurting more.

But Jessa is the perfect wife for him. She'd grown up with her father's political soirees and events. She knows exactly how to behave standing by the side of her new husband with his blossoming political career already on the fast track. Not like her – the awkward Jewish girl from the upper-east side. She has no idea how to talk to all of the interesting people (most of whom Jessa already knows intimately), say interesting things and sip cocktails till the wee hours of the morning.

She can't be charming in the same way Jessa can be charming. She can't look perfect every day – even with only three hours of sleep – like Jessa can. She can't schmooze and make all the right connections like Jessa can. She can't even apply eyeliner straight like Jessa can. She's tried. After spending two years in the same room with the girl – she knew exactly how she couldn't measure up.

How can you compete with perfect?

It's like watching a car crash.

She can't take her eyes off the screen. The announcer is saying that they should be coming out any moment and she is holding her breath. Why hasn't Spot changed the channel? Maybe he is going to, but she can't look away from the screen even for an instant to see if he is. She can't talk, can't move, can't think, can't breath in anticipation for the most painful blow of them all.

When Jack broke up with her she felt like she was going to be sick. When she found out that he was seeing Jessa she _was_ sick. When she got the invitation to their wedding in the mail she felt like she was dying. She thought that by avoiding their wedding today, by not actually seeing them get married, she could avoid that fatal blow. Now she watches the screen in morbid fascination.

Maybe she is masochistic.

Then it happens. The huge oak doors of the church swing open and there is a flash of light and white. At first it is a blur as the camera man tries to get both the couple and the newscaster in the shot, but then sacrifices the announcer for a clear shot of the happy couple. The very happy couple. Holy Moses – their smiles could span the Brooklyn Bridge.

And Jessa is stunning.

Absolutely immaculate.

Not that she expected anything different, but she even made the shitty weather look bright. Now she was all for a glowing bride, but that is just ridiculous.

And of course there is Jack. He always cleaned up nicely, but today he is exceptional. The white tux is perfectly tailored. His hair is combed back neatly. His dark eyes sparkling brightly. He is beautiful, and he can't keep his hands off of Jessa. He loops an arm around her waist, pulls her closer, and plants of big kiss on her lips as they scurry off to the limo that is going to whisk them to the reception sight.

He used to kiss her like that on the way to class.

Her throat clenches. Sweet memories pulse.

Why hasn't Spot changed the damn channel?

The newscaster is talking about meaningless details that she already knows through the grapevine. As the couple disappears into their limo, the camera pans over the crowd and she see so many people she knows. Her family, old friends from high school and college that she is still in touch with, politicians and dignitaries she met when she spent time with Jessa's family… but she isn't there.

She is here.

She is here, standing in the middle of Patrick Conlon's living room in a bathrobe, unsure if her legs are going to be able to hold her. All she can do is try to breathe and try to not collapse. There are no tears though. This hurts too much for tears. This hurts too much to feel. Numbness is a never ending state in her existence now.

The live action newscaster hands the focus back to the main anchor now that the happy couple had been featured. She doesn't hear a word he says. There is a faint click and the screen goes blank. Sure. _Now_ he turns it off. Now that she feels like someone has taken a sledge hammer to her heart.

But finally, for once, he seems like Spot has absolutely no idea what to say.

It's a hollow victory.

"I didn't know that was going to be on."

Neither did she.

"I just wanted to see the weather."

Why? So he could call up God and tell Him to change it to better suit his needs? Patrick Conlon would be so bold.

"I wouldn't have turned it on if I knew that would happen."

Then why didn't he turn it off once it was on? Bastard. No. Wait. Is he – apologizing? Or at least trying to?

She shakes herself out of her self-imposed paralysis and looks over at him. He's still staring at the screen.

"It's okay." Her voice is unreasonably calm. Especially since she is everything except okay.

It's a long silence. Neither of them daring to say a word. Both lost in intense retrospection and self inspection.

"Who do you miss more – her or him?" It isn't a fair question. He's making up for the near apology.

"Him." The question might not have been fair, but the answer was easy.

Jack, her first crush. Jack, her first love. Jack, her first fuck. Jessa had been her roommate for two years. She knows that the feminist thing to do would be to choose Jessa over Jack, but she is done with that bullshit. She is still miserable and so damn tired of the superficiality. At least she isn't cold anymore. But that is because she took off all of her wet clothes and is now wrapped in a lush robe probably more expensive than anything in her actual wardrobe.

"I'm hungry. You want something?" What? Hospitality?

"Sure." It is response without thought even though her stomach feels like it is full of cement.

"Preference?"

"I'm flexible." She doesn't care. Something. Anything. Just not Hamburger Helper or Kraft Dinner.

She expects him to reach down and pick up his fancy iPhone and call down to someone like Frank or Jerry and order them to make or order them some food, but he doesn't. Instead he stands and stretches like a great cat, back arching, arms reaching. His robe gaps over his chest just enough for her to see a flash of gold tinted skin, the cleavage between his defined pectorals lightly sprinkled with dark hair, but then it is gone as he drops his arms. When he passes by her, there is no contact, but there is connection. Dumbly – she follows.

They're in the kitchen and he gets several ingredients from his stainless steel refrigerator and cupboards. She sits on a bar stool at the counter and watches. He cooks? She's surprised, but she knows she shouldn't be. She had grown up with him, but that doesn't mean she knows anything about him.

She watches in fascination as he begins to beat together some flour, baking powder, olive oil, sugar, and water. He adds some sort of spices to it and before scraping the dough onto a flat pan and spreading it thinly over its surface. He's moving like he has no question about what he is doing.

Back to the refrigerator again, this time come out with an armful of produce, a few large blocks of cheese, and links of meat. He dumped the veggies into the sink, turned on the tap, set the cheese on the counter and fetched assorted utensils from the drawers and cabinets. A knife and cutting board appeared in front of her along with an onion, three tomatoes, a green and red pepper, and a handful of mushrooms.

"Cut these into thin strips."

She didn't even have time to ask, but does as she's told. She should be offended that he ordered her around like that, forcing her into doing undignified woman's work, but she doesn't want to. A simple, repetitive task like slicing vegetables was the perfect distraction away from everything. No thoughts of the vision on the television. No thoughts of how she should be the one in the white dress next to Jack. No thoughts of how she is going to justify this to her family and friends. No thoughts of where she is now or the company she is keeping. Just a delicious focus of steel sliding through and slicing its target – it isn't complicated. For once today something isn't complicated.

It feels good to cut roughly through the vegetables. The onion burns her eyes but no tears come. It is a disappointment and a relief. Her mascara isn't waterproof. By the time she is done – he is waiting for her. She is no gourmet and it shows in how uneven her slices are, but he makes no comment. He drizzles some olive oil and herbs over the dough before he blankets it with her tomato slices. The rest of the vegetables follow, then cheese he has grated and meat he has sliced. He pops it into the oven without a word as she watches.

"I didn't know you could cook." She observes casually as he takes the cutting board in front of her to the sink.

"You haven't tasted it yet. I might not be able to." He points out with a smirk. Even in self-deprecation he has to be right. That is something about him she hasn't forgotten.

On the other side of the counter he opens a door underneath and she hears clinking of glass. He pulls out a bottle of wine and sets it on the counter before retrieving two goblets. With his thumbs he pops the cork, pours the wine, and hands her a cup. Carefully she takes a sip. Without any food in her system it won't take much to get her tipsy.

He watches her with darkness in his eyes as he drinks from his own cup across the counter. He's folded against the opposite side, a few hairs drying and falling down over his forehead rakishly. Her body tingles at the attention. Some of her hungers can't be slaked with food. It has been a long time. She takes a swallow of wine to wet her suddenly dry mouth. It doesn't help.

"Do you miss him?" She blurted out into the silence.

She looks at him. A far away look replaces the darkness. He swirls his wine in his cup and breathes deeply of it before taking another swallow.

"Yes." He replied finally. "He was my best friend." Bitter past tense.

"What happened?" She pries. Why is she suddenly so comfortable asking Spot, a relative stranger, the question she couldn't even ask Jack?

"People change." It's short and she doesn't expect a lot more. They aren't to the drunken confession part of the evening. Yet.

Her glass is almost empty by the time he pulls their creation out of the oven – the cheese bubbling and gooey.

"This is my mom's take on New York style pizza." He offers an explanation as he cuts the piping hot entrée with a large circular blade.

His mom?

"Your mom?" She doesn't remember his mom in either him mentioning her or actually coming in contact with her. Ever.

"Yeah. She's second generation American-Italian."

Italian? She guesses she can see that in his face and features, but it still surprises her. Then again – he could be completely shitting her. How many times had he seduced women up here and fed them lines just like he was feeding her lines right now? But then again, how many of those women had gone to high school with him and "known him back when"? How many of them had been involved with his former best friend only to be dumped for no apparent reason? She doesn't want to know the answer to that question.

"I always thought you were Irish." She replies as he hands her a plate with a large gooey square on it.

"I am." Well that clears up everything. "On my dad's side."

"Oh." She picks up her pizza and blows on it. "I'm just Jewish. My mom's Jewish. My dad's Jewish. My grandparents are Jewish. Dave's wife is Jewish." She could have continued the list but she was starting to bore herself. Everyone in her family is Jewish. In fact she believes that her mother and father had been relieved when Jack had left her so that she could find herself a nice Jewish boy. That hasn't happened.

"That Walking Mouth is married." Spot doesn't sound surprised (probably because he already knew). "Finally found someone who loves the sound of his voice as much as he does." He chuckles and Sarah knew that she should bristle at the insult to her brother, but she smiles in spite of herself.

It is true. Dave always had a way with words and now he is the speech writer for one Jack Kelly. The traitorous bastard. How could he do that to her? All those words Jack says on the podium to the crowd of adoring supporters are written by her brother. Briefly she wonders if she was listening to rehearsed lines for the entire course of their relationship. Jack always sounded better when he'd had time to think about it.

"I wonder how long it will take Jack to replace Dave with another writer." She muses out loud. "He's pretty good at getting rid of people when they aren't useful to him anymore." It is hard. It is bitter. It is cruel. She means every damn syllable.

He pours her more wine.

She drinks, but he's not far behind. Somehow she doubts that it affects him the same way it affects her. She wonders if he has really ever been drunk.

The pizza is delicious. The flavors dance in her mouth in a most pleasing way, but it feels like a rock in her stomach. The same way her stomach felt when she introduced Jessa to Jack that first time so long ago. Then she had been able to push the feelings of uneasiness aside at the instant connection the two seemed to have, but now she is resigned to live with them. They're a tangled mess of anger, hate, and apathy wadded into a tight coil ready to explode in her abdomen.

Nothing has ever hurt this much.

"Do you believe in God?" she asks. She'd grown up hearing about a God that looked out for her and her people, but she wonders where he is now.

His face remains the same at her inquiry. Not even "the God" question seems to phase him. The incident with the TV is the only time she's seen him off kilter. Ever. Hoping for two such moments in a night is foolhardy.

"Sure." He shrugs and takes a bite of his pizza. "Who wants to believe that this is all there is?" It isn't the best logic, but she agrees with him.

"I'm Jewish." She points out. "People always assume I believe in God just because I'm Jewish." She doesn't know where she's going with this. "People don't do that when they find out you're Italian or Irish."

That isn't entirely true.

A silver crucifix glistens on the wall above the kitchen sink. It doesn't seem out of place next to his stainless steel fixtures and black granite counter tops, but it does seem out of place for his personality. She has a hard time believing that he goes to mass and confessional, because that would require him admitting that he isn't perfect. With and Italian mother and an Irish father – chances are he was raised Catholic, but that doesn't mean he stayed Catholic. Maybe the crucifix is a reminder of who he has been more than who he is today. He never said what god he believed in.

It strikes her as strange that she didn't even know what religion Spot claims. Jack had practiced Christianity (which made her grandmother faint with anger) and it was appropriate for his career choice, but what benefit would Spot have with keeping religious items in his kitchen? There are other ways to decorate.

"Everyone wants something to believe in." he waxes philosophical for a moment. "You just got lucky. You were born with something to believe in. The rest of us have to figure it out on our own."

She never can tell if he is joking or not. How is it that she knows so little about him, but still feels closer to him right now more than anyone else? The wine and her loneliness must be working against her.

"What if I don't want to be told what to believe? What if I was to figure it all out on my own, too?" She sounds more defensive than she means to be.

"Then do it. No one is stopping you." He puts down his plate in the sink and then leans on the bar across from her. "That's the great thing about New York. If you want something you just have to take it."

"It doesn't work that way all the time." She had wanted Jack and look where that had gotten her.

If someone had wagered a million dollars to her this morning that this is where she would be tonight, she would have spat in their eye, but here she is. Talking about God and dreams in the kitchen of a poor boy turned rich man. It sounded like something out of a bad screen play. But it isn't awkward like she anticipated it to be. The conversation flows naturally, comfortably, intimately. It is like they've been good friends for years.

She slides out of her bar chair, goes around the bar to the side Spot is on and deposits her plate into the sink along with his. Instinctively she turns on the tap to hot and starts to rinse her plate and his. Her apartment doesn't have a dishwasher so if you let the food set on the plate it turned as hard as a rock. It doesn't cross her mind until a few moments later that he has a dishwasher, or even if he didn't he would be able to hire someone to wash his dishes for him.

When she shuts off the tap and looks at him he is smirking. It sends chills down her spine. She doesn't think she can ever get used to that look. He knows exactly how attractive he is.

With a slouchy, from-the-hip fashion – Spot saunters to where his dishwasher is tucked oh-so-carefully directly behind her and opens it casually. The door nearly brushes her bare calves on its decent. He watches her as she takes the plates from the sink and automatically puts them in their appropriate places in the machine then shuts it.

He pours more wine and hands her a glass as she straightens. With a lips curled in his familiar amusedly arrogant grin – he lifts his goblet in a sort of toast to her before taking a swallow. She, not sure what else to do, imitates his gesture. It is much more awkward than his smooth gesticulation but he rewards her effort with a smile. With that he turns and walks out of the room with her following closely behind.

It is easy. It is natural. It is comfortable. It is like they've done this before. They haven't. Have they?

They're back in his sunken living room, but this time he doesn't turn on the television. He knows better than that now. Still she feels the pizza creeping up her throat at the memory of the visions that had played out on the screen. Will it ever get easier with which to cope?

She walks over to the panoramic window which looks out over the darkened city-scape. The darkness and the weather limit the view down to blurred lines and lights through the haze. Probably better that way. She wasn't really interested in the view anyway, just the distraction. A chill creeps down her back and she wraps one arm around her waist – the other holding her wine glass close to her mouth. The rich fruity smell wafts into her nostrils. She takes a sip and the odor becomes a flavor exploding in her mouth. The flavor becomes warmth sliding down her throat to her belly and the warmth spreads outward through her system.

She takes another drink – again focusing on the sensation of it all.

Music is playing. It is low, mellow, and she thinks she recognizes the band. He joins her at the window. He is watching her again and that familiar chill creeps up and down her spine. She takes a sip of wine, but it does little to ward off cool sensations. Damn.

"Do you keep up with anyone from high school anymore?" she introduces the subject quickly. He's in Jack's graduating class, two years ahead of her, but they still had a fairly similar circle of friends.

"No. Not particularly." He turns so he is facing her instead of the window.

"Oh." She automatically cheats her body towards his as well.

It wasn't surprising that he didn't. Her ten year reunion had been seven months ago. She hadn't gone. If she didn't keep in touch with anyone, how could she expect him to as well? She'd done all right up through her break up with Jack, but after that she'd lost touch in attempts to avoid contact with Jack. Funny how removing one little piece of her life required the complete amputation.

She notices that he doesn't return the question and assumes that he probably already knows exactly who keeps company with who in his old circle. It could be creepy if she let it – but then again she is the one who always reads the tabloid articles involving him.

"If you could go back – would you change anything?" Again she is the one asking the question. Something about how her mouth never checks with her brain before it spoke – especially with even the slightest bit of alcohol in her system. Perhaps this tied into her lack of foresight.

"Possibly." Another short answer – she's disappointed only momentarily. "There are certain perks to being a millionaire though that make up for anything I might want to change." He smirks and takes a drink. She follows suit. "Would you?" This time he returns the question.

A question with a shorter answer would be: what _wouldn't_ she change? However the only thing pulsing in her mind is Jack. It is the same thing that has been pulsing in her mind for the past fifteen seconds, minutes, hours, years. Jack and the whole motley bunch of mixed up feelings and late nights wondering if he cared about her the same way she cared for him. Jack and the first kiss with butterflies as big as dinosaurs in her stomach. Jack and the way he tried to let her down gently in the end – but failed miserably. Jack and the way he still says he cares, the way he calls once a month to make sure she is okay, and the one who probably noticed that she wasn't there today. Jack and the way she still loves him.

"I would have never signed up for the cookbook of the month club." And takes a mouthful of wine to avoid looking in his eyes. It is a truth, but a veiled one at that.

They both know her real answer.

"Your best friend and your high school boyfriend. That must sting." It isn't a question.

"She was my roommate, not my best friend." The correction came quickly. Jack was also much more than just her high school boyfriend, but she lets that slide. A bitter edge laces the tone and the look that accompanies her response. He notes it duly.

It is a festering wound that sends poisonous feelings of anger, bitterness, regret, and hate through her system. Those feelings already have done their terrible dance throughout her body and now instead of an intense pain – all she feels is a dull ache. That's all she feels now and all she has felt for a long time. The familiar numbness frightens her. Is this how she is going to feel, or rather not feel, for the rest of her life?

She tries to take a drink from her glass but finds it empty. When had she finished it?

"Yes. Yes it does sting." She stares at the bottom of her empty glass and doesn't recognize her own voice when she speaks.

"Did you vote for him?" He probes deeper and she wonders why she hasn't just walked away. Is she so starved for human companionship?

"I'm registered Democrat. He's on the Republican ticket." A Republican representative from New York was almost unheard of, but if anyone could win it – it would have been Jack. "Did you?" she can turn around his cheap shot just as quickly as he can spring it on her.

"Hell no. If you elect Jack you elect whoever is the moving force behind him. That would be his new father-in-law." Spot takes her empty glass from her hand, walks over to his pure black coffee table, and puts it down. No coaster. Does he not care or does he not notice? "That was the great thing about Jacky-boy. If you got him to listen to you he'd do whatever you say." It was true. How many times had she seen Jack be fed lines only to spit them back out in his own charismatic fashion?

He is the perfect politician. Just a puppet on a string.

A pleasant buzz has settled in over her now. Nothing dramatic – just enough for her to realize that she has had a few drinks. She's still very much aware of where she is, what she is wearing, and who she is with. No amount of alcohol could dull that in her mind. She watches him down the last of the red wine and set his goblet next to hers on the coffee table from her place at the window. She watches the muscles in his throat work to swallow down the last drops and the way his robe gapes when he bends over to set down his glass. No. She can't very well forget who she is with.

"Do you hate him?" She asks the question – her very own cheap shot.

He meets her eyes with a look no less than frightening, but she isn't afraid. Earlier tonight she would have been, but now she isn't. Blame the alcohol. Blame her lack of foresight. Blame the fact that she just doesn't fucking care anymore and she wants, more than anything, someone to understand that.

It takes him a few moments to answer.

"Sometimes." And it is the way he says it that lets her know he understands what she is asking. It that painful shadow flickering on his face. How many times has she looked into a mirror and seem that same shadow on her own face?

But he understands.

She knows he understands and something inside of her snaps at the realization.

For years she hasn't talked to anyone about anything having to do with Jack Kelly. For various reasons but mainly that people were uncomfortable with the topic around her. Understandably so. But there is something here tonight, it has been here the whole night, and she recognizes it now. There is a connection that she had never made until this point.

They'd both lost Jack Kelly but neither of them had let him go.

She hurts. He hurts. They hurt.

And it is clear that they are both so damn tired of being alone.

Before she can second guess herself – she strides over to him, stands on her tip toes, and presses a kiss to his lips. It is fast and dry, and she pulls back before there is any chance for it to become more. This is where the night is going, they both know it, so why postpone it any longer? The expression on his face when she pulls back is one of pleasant surprise and in a moment she is embarrassed. He doesn't give her time to rethink herself.

His fingers twine in her semi-dry mess of hair and kisses her like he means it. It's all firm pressure and languid heat. There's nothing chaste about it as his tongue slicks out to claim her mouth. She can taste the remnants of wine on his tongue mixed with the distinct flavor of him. Her hands grip the plush fabric of his robe and the hand in her hair twists. Then he kisses her like _that_. Hell yes. It is hard, real, and wet. Nothing is held back and she never wants him to stop.

He doesn't.

Voices in the back of her mind tell her that she should be horrified when his hand unties the belt of her robe and slips inside. They tell her that she should stop this before it goes any further as he leads her to his bedroom and onto his bed. They tell her that good Jewish girls don't behave this way when she reaches between them to feel him. They tell her that she is going to be just another notch on his bed post when she hears the rustle of a condom wrapper.

Tomorrow she might regret this, but tonight she has decided she won't.

_This_ is sex for all it is. _This_ is fucking. This is what happens between a man and woman for all too many reasons, but never enough. She's going to have bruises with his fingerprints, but she wouldn't want it any other way.

"You're beautiful." He's writing poetry on her skin with his words. "So perfect…" She bows her body into his voice.

She has work tomorrow. He does too. But the morning after is the last thing on their minds right now.

Oh it has been a long time. He fills her full stretch. She isn't a virgin, but it feels like it. This time it feels different.

"Fuck…" he murmurs and she digs her fingernails into his backside.

They both expected to end up here tonight but neither of them expected it to be like this.

"Don't close your eyes. Look at me." He orders and her brown eyes open to find his blue eyes near black with passion.

He holds her gaze until he kisses hard her while she finishes.

He isn't far behind.

Five minutes later and they're touching again. Her tongue sweeps down and she tastes them. He makes a noise in the back of his throat that she wants to make him make again. He takes her from behind, impossibly steady, impossibly hard, she doesn't know where he starts or where she stops anymore.

"Dammit." He is straining. "Sarah." A curse. A prayer.

It is fair to say they expected this, but they never expected it to be like this.

"Anything. Anything. Anything." It's a promise she isn't sure he will keep, but doesn't care right now. She is so close.

A few minutes later and they collapse – exhausted.

His weight pressed against her back is more pleasant than painful. She can feel his chest heave with heavy breathing and feels the way their skin peels apart when he rolls off to the side. Strong arms pull her back into the curve of his body. It is more about the need for contact than the need for comfort.

"If you could go back – would you change anything?" He asks the question this time. The words whisper through her hair and tickle the skin behind her ear.

She knows that he is talking about tonight.

"No." She doesn't hesitate. She's never been so sure.

She can't see it, but she feels his smirk on the back of her neck. It doesn't bother her. In a few moments they are both sleeping.

She calls in sick the next morning.

So does he.

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**A/N:** So if you managed to read all of that – you are my hero. I'd love feedback. Like I said – this is a kind of experimental piece. Currently I don't plan on continuing it – but who knows? Stranger things have happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Jessa belongs to Stress. She is just letting me borrow her because she is super nice.

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**A/N**: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I know that I never intended to do any kind of follow up on this piece, but I did. Mainly I'm just continuing this because I am so vain that I just find my modern world too clever for its own good. That and because I just find the possibility of Spot and Sarah being a "thing" too delightfully wrong to pass up. My intention here isn't to necessarily "finish" this fiction or have it ever come to a nice and succinct ending. I may never update it again. Who knows? This fiction is the ultimate floater piece.

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**Warning**: PG-15 (language, adult situations)

* * *

He is making her coffee because she has a headache. Not because of a hangover, but because she is mercilessly addicted to the caffeine. She is in an over-sized dress shirt with nothing else, sitting at the black marble bar, looking every inch of the "morning after". He is in loose fitting silk pajama bottoms that ride dangerously low on his hips. His hair looks like its been through a hurricane, his face needs a shave, but there is still something about him that make her think he could go into a five star restaurant right now and still get a table.

Damn. He should never wear a shirt.

He slides her a steaming cup of a deep brow brew and she inhales greedily.

"Cream or sugar?"

She shakes her head 'no'. She takes her coffee as uncomplicated as she can get it. It's one of the few things in her life that she has managed to keep untainted. The first sip nearly burns her tongue but she keeps drinking. She needs the caffeine. Now.

She's practically done by the time he finishing pouring his own cup. He pours her some more.

Patrick Conlon takes both sugar and cream in his coffee, though not much. He comes around and joins her in sitting at the bar. They drink their coffee in silence but it isn't awkward. It's practically routine. She drinks this second serving slowly – savoring the dark tangy flavor. It took awhile for her to get used to her coffee black, but now it is the only way she'll take it.

Bitterness is an acquired taste.

Still, it's amazing what two good cups of coffee with do for a girl. The headache she had a few minutes before is already nearly gone and her mind is free from its pounding. She slides off of her barstool and walks around to the other side of the island. Rinsing her cup – she places the ceramic mug into the dishwasher and catches his eye. He is smirking. No doubt remembering last night. She remembers too and a chill slips down her spine.

"Here." He hands her his mug across the bar. She gives it the same treatment as hers. He's watching her again.

"I don't normally take the day off." He admits.

"Neither do I." She doesn't because she can't afford it – he could disappear for a month and never bat an eye.

Funny how one statement can bring reality back down like a sledge hammer. Instead of being at work earning much needed rent money – she is standing in the kitchen of Patrick Conlon. She's missed the breakfast rush – but if she hurries she might be able to catch a lunch shift. That is if she isn't fired when she comes in. That's the thing with being a waitress in New York… there is always another wannabe waiting to take your job. If she gets fired, and doesn't find work soon, she will lose her apartment. Then she'll be forced to live off of the generosity and hospitality of others. Namely her parents - which is exactly her worst nightmare. Late twenties moving back home because she picked an English major with an emphasis on creative writing because she liked to read and write, but gained little other skills needed to succeed in the dog-eat-dog business capitol of the world.

Homeless, destitute, single with no prospects, a birthday next month and the beginnings of crows feet to prove it – that is something she can't be. Not while Jessa is married to the ex she never quite got over and glowing in newly-wedded bliss. No. Not over her dead body. That sickening ball of angst, anger and apathy tightens in her gut and she hates. She just hates. There is no way in hell she is going to end up that way.

She needs to get out of here.

She is sure he saw her entire internal dialogue play over her features. Quickly she makes a note to self to work on her poker face.

"I need to go, though." She feels redundant as she says that since she _knows_ he can read her mind. "I have – stuff to do." If stuff is working till she falls over dead tired at the end of the day then she is telling the truth.

"Have you ever seen the movie _Titanic_?" he asks and now she wishes that she could read _his _mind. Where in the blue hell did that come from?

"Yes." She says – though she fails to see the connection to what this has to do with her leaving.

"It came out my senior year of high school. I hated almost everything about that film." She knows he's going somewhere with this, but she has no clue where. "In fact – I've found one particular aspect of the movie rather inspiring." she watches him stand and cock his head to the side as if to inspect her. "I would like to draw you."

Suddenly she is more aware of her appearance than she has been in years. Certainly he has seen her at her worst (at least she hopes she'll never get worse than last night) but the idea of him carefully studying ever inch of her in attempts to recreate her seems a little too bug under the microscope.

"You want to what?" She runs a hand nervously through her tangled hair.

"To draw you." He comes around to the other side of the counter and takes her hand.

"Naked?" her voice squeaks and she realizes how ridiculous that question sounds. It isn't like he hasn't seen her naked. They only had sex for hours last night. She tries to not acknowledge that he is leading her out of the kitchen and towards the sunken living room.

"Nude models make good money." He informs her.

"How would you know?"

He answers her with a smirk that sends a jolt down to her toes. Suddenly she doesn't want to know.

They are in the living room when he pulls her closer and starts to unbutton the shirt she is wearing. Her heart jumps to her throat as the first button slips out of its hole.

"May I at least brush my hair first?" the smirk is back and he undoes another button.

"I can't have you ruin my handiwork." He gives her a look that makes her blush. She is no where close to modest now.

Spot is rewarded for his hard work and her shirt is fully open now and he steps back to regard her. He tilts his head to the side as a wickedly mischievous glint she remembers from last night simmers in his eyes. His generous mouth cracks into a sly smile that she wants so badly to kiss. It frightens her how automatically her body respond to him.

"Make yourself comfortable." He steps forward towards her and she thinks he will kiss her, but instead he moves past her without quite touching.

Her skin prickles at the almost contact and she curses him for teasing her with his proximity. She turns to watch him go and half expects him to turn and look at her. He doesn't. At least she is only half wrong.

Once he is out of sight she quickly runs her fingers through her hair. Handiwork be damned. The last thing she wants is a drawing of her looking like she was too poor to afford a hair brush. Nervously she pinches color into her cheeks then she looks around. Make herself comfortable? What in the hell did he mean by that? How could he expect her to make herself comfortable when she is nearly naked and in broad daylight?

Self-consciously she re-buttons part of her shirt. What is she still doing here? She really does need to leave. If she doesn't get to work soon she will be looking for a job. She can't afford to let this tryst cloud her judgement.

She needs to leave. Now.

Then Spot returns. He has in his hands several things: a large sketch pad, something that looks like an oddly shaped silver cigarette case, and a portable easel. Oh. And he is completely naked.

Her heart jumps to her throat and her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. She knows she looks like a deer in the head lights, but she can't help it. Damn. He is beautiful.

"I don't remember Leo being naked, too." She says dumbly.

"I think this is more fair. Don't you?" He steps into the room and walks towards her in a way that can only be described as predatory. Instinctively she takes a step back. He chuckles and moves past her to the window. She never takes her eyes off of him.

He sets up his easel quickly and places his sketch pad upon it. The daylight streams in through the clean panes of glass illuminating him. His smooth skin stretches over lean muscle as it rolls and bunches easily with his motions. There is a grace in his actions down to the tiniest flick of his fingers. Everything about the way he moves looks choreographed and rehearsed. She is mesmerized by his motions. Her hands ache to touch him.

"I would like you to stand by the window and look out." He instructs briefly. "And I want that shirt gone." He looks at her in a way that lets her know she better not hesitate to comply and something tightens in her gut.

"What is someone looks in?" she stalls, clutching at the front of her garb.

"We are 90 floors up. No one is looking in." It isn't impatient, or cruel, but it isn't a particularly comforting tone. "Now strip."

Something in the way he says that suddenly sparks a fire in her belly. There is more to this than a recreational activity or a few bucks for her. This is a dare. It is a challenge. She's not a risk taker and she's not particularly brave. She remembers countless dares she had walked away from in childhood to the taunts of 'chicken' or 'baby'. Even now she manages to talk herself out of almost every positive experience she could have just because she doesn't want to take a chance; but she is fucking sick of sitting and watching her own life pass her by. She is sick of watching her family and friends have amazing life experiences while she waits tables and goes home to a cat.

So she does it. Albeit awkwardly, she abandons her shirt and walks over to the window. It takes everything within herself not to try to cover anything with her hand or hands. His eyes watch her with surprised approval and she knows she is blushing.

"Look out the window. Find a position you don't mind staying in for awhile."

She does. She stands. He draws.

At first it is almost unbearably uncomfortable. The chill of the air around her makes the hair on her arms stand on end and she feels a shiver run up and down her spine. The physical discomfort is unrivalled, however, by the keen mental awareness of just how vulnerable she is in this moment. She half expects Jerry or Frank to walk in that special elevator with her clothes this very moment and see her like this. Somehow she figures that it would be nothing new for Spot to have them walk in on him in the nude, but besides her doctor and her cat – no one had seen her naked in the daylight besides herself.

Now there is music playing. It's classical. She didn't see him grab the remote to turn it on, but then again she is staring intently out the window trying to ignore the fact that he is staring at her with an artist's scrutiny. Instead of focusing on his attentions she forces herself to focus on the softly playing strings. Vivaldi. She is almost positive that this is Vivaldi. When she was in elementary school her parents would play classical music like this to help block out the noises from the other apartments at bedtime. It had soothed her then but she finds it no longer bears the same comfort that it once had for her.

So, what happens now?

Eventually he will finish his drawing. Then what? Awkwardly dress and head out of his building for the long trek back to her apartment to check on her cat? Will he want to detain her longer? Surely a man of his importance, even if he has taken the day off, has better things to do with his time than slum around with her. They may have both come from the same status but she has fallen down the totem pole and he has skyrocketed up the social ladder. She can make a mental list longer than a city block of the dignitary daughters and distinguished debutants that have graced Patrick Conlon's arm. With access to women like that – what need will he have for her except a fling?

Self-doubt clouds her thoughts and she is beyond relieved when he finally announces she can move. Instantly she grabs the shirt on the floor and shrugs it on over her shoulders – hoping that the perpetual sense of uneasiness would subside with the donning of some clothes. She doesn't get her wish, but she does feel a little less cold.

The warmth of the garment is temporary. Spot's hand grabs hers and there are chills crawling up and down her spine that she is sure could trigger seismic activity. She follows the demanding tug to his side. She knows that he wants her to view the work he has done, but she hesitates. What if he can't draw and she is all misproportioned and awkward looking? Or, possibly worse, what if he is a good artist and it looks like her and she has to see herself through the eyes of another? Well, she really doesn't have a choice.

She looks at the portrait.

He is a good artist. It really looks like her. No - it _really_ looks like her. The dark charcoal lines capture every contour and curve of her figure and she blushes at it. There is a softness in her face that she doesn't remember seeing in the mirror, but appreciates in this picture. The fullness of her frame is captured in every last detail from the rumpled hair to the soft curves of her breasts to the delicate lines of her hands. She looks peaceful, dignified, and comfortable in her nudity. There is even a hint of a smile on her lips. He has made her look beautiful. Does that mean that he thinks she is beautiful? The implication is too much to stomach - so she dismisses it.

"What are you going to do with it now?" she asks – not able to look away from it, transfixed and not believing that it is actually her.

"Frame it. Hang it over the mantel. Let everyone see you." He informs and it breaks her from her reverie.

"You can't do that!" Her head turns quick enough to warrant whiplash to see him offering saucy smile.

"Oh I can't?" He replies in mock surprise. "Then I suppose I will have to keep it for my private collection." He is teasing her and she doesn't know whether to be relieved or enraged.

He doesn't give her time to make up her mind because in an instant he is kissing her. His hands slip over her shoulders and push the shirt to the floor. Everything he touches is electric. Last night she had chalked up her physical reaction to her neediness, to the celibacy that had haunted her, but now she can't dismiss the shock waves rolling through her system as a mere fluke. Where exactly did he learn how to do _that_ with his tongue? Skin against skin - she is glad to be reminded of just how good this can feel. Her soft contours meld so easily to the hard lines of his form. She could do this forever.

It is just getting interesting when the ring of his cell phone on the coffee table starts. He pulls back from her with a look that tells her not to move a muscle as he hurries over to the place where his phone insistently rings. He answers with business like efficiency and after a few moments – exits without any signal of what she is to do.

So she waits. She stands and she waits and when she shivers she once again grabs the discarded shirt and dons it. For awhile she stares at the pictures he drew of her, but the longer she looks at it the more uncomfortable she becomes. She doesn't appreciate her appearance in any rendering, but the fact that this is something that _he _drew gives her a queasy sensation in her gut. Also the fact that she looks better in this drawing than in any photograph ever taken of her makes her nervous. Is this really the way he sees her?

She sits on the couch and her muscles thank her. She hadn't realized how long she had been standing there like a stiff statue. The remote is within her reach, but she remembers the terrible TV incident from the night before and thinks better of turning on the plasma screen. Oh. Dammit. Last night. Jack. Jessa. She is going to hurl. Pressing her eyes closed tightly – she lowers herself flat onto her back. The black leather is cool against the backs of her thighs and she reclines and she feels her nausea subside slightly.

Her concept of time fades into oblivion as she attempts to think of everything and anything except her ex and her college roommate. Somehow – her thoughts always wonder back to Spot and she can't help but ponder how she ended up where she is. Then she remembers her moody jaunt and the painful cause for her lapse in judgement, and she has gone full circle in her agony.

Time blurs as she continues on her masochistic circle – each time it leading back to where she is right at this moment. Each time leaving her wondering just what in the hell she is doing here. Each time leaving her slightly bitterer and slightly less willing to turn on her cell phone and return the ten billion phone calls she has most likely received.

Then somehow, miraculously, her body forces her mind to take a rest by falling asleep. She has no idea how long she is unconscious or when slumber overtook her, but she knows that the unfeeling darkness was a welcome interruption. She awakes to the sound of her name and the touch of her shoulder. Blearily she peers through slits of her eyes. She wasn't out long enough to forget where she was, but it is still disorienting to wake to a different voice in a different place than to which she is accustomed. No matter how lucid she is, however, nothing could prepare her for the next conversation.

Spot is kneeling next to her by the couch; his hand is on her shoulder, his face distractingly close. She can smell him. It is already becoming a familiar smell. It smells heavy, masculine, and expensive. Those entrancing blue eyes capture hers with minimal effort. He has ridiculously thick eyelashes. It is unfair that a boy should have such lusciously dark lashes. Then he smiles. It is a heartbreakingly rakish, crooked grin that makes her heart beat fast.

"Hey." He voice is low, but firm. "Do you have your passport?" he asks and she is completely incapable of understanding why he would ask such a question.

"Yes." She answers automatically in her drowsy state.

There are no stamps in it of course. She hasn't even been to Canada. It is just that she has watched _While You Were Sleeping_ a million too many times and somewhere around the two hundred thousandth time she figured: what the hell?

"Go back to your apartment. Pack for a week. I will pick you up in an hour. We're going to London." He told her this as casually as he would tell someone plans for dinner.

"Excuse me?" she was surprised that she could even manage this in her sleep fogged state.

"I have business in England. I'm taking you with me." It couldn't be more matter of fact and he stands. "Be sure you pack some nice things. We'll be attending some formal events."

Instantly she thinks of the dress she had bought when she actually thought that she _might_ have the guts to go to Jack's wedding. Oh shit. She is right back to where she was before she fell asleep. She is going to be sick.

"I can't." She blurts as she sits up. Her skin makes a strange sticky noise as it peels off of the leather. "I have to work."

"I'll pay you to go with me." He counters and she now notices (and laments) the fact that he is wearing a pair of tailored dress pants. "You keep me from going insane from British formalities and I will pay your rent for a month." It is a tempting offer. Especially considering that she has sampled some of the pleasures that are already guaranteed her across the great pond.

"But I can't leave my cat." She hesitates.

Even though she has known Spot for years, in a lot of ways it feels like she just met him for the first time last night. What would her family say when she let them know? She still hasn't checked her phone. Her poor mother is probably frantic by now.

"Your roommate can take care of her." How in the hell does he know she has a roommate? She doesn't even try to figure it out.

"I'll lose my job." She looks up at him and finds him watching her intently.

"I'll find you another one." He promises and she has no doubt that he will, but somehow this just doesn't feel right.

Another question pops into her mind and she realizes that it is probably the only one that really mattered in the first place. It makes her sick to come to that conclusion, but she can't deny the truth of it. _What will Jack think if he finds out?_ She knows, logistically, it is only a matter of time before he hears it through the grape vine. She can't just disappear without telling someone in the family that she is high rolling in England and it will only be so long before they put all the pieces together and figure out with whom.

Guilt at her inability to effectively amputate the bastard from her life washes over her like a tidal wave. She hopes that Spot can't read her mind at this instant, but assumes that he probably can. Gauging from the tempered expression on his face and the way he sinks down to his knees in front of her on the floor – she knows that he can tell that none of the things she has mentioned are what are really holding her back. All she can hope is that he can't tell exactly what it is that is making her bite her tongue so hard she swears she can almost taste blood.

"Come with me." It is low, dark, and tempting. It sends electricity all through her body and she can't believe how glad she is to be sitting down because he knees are absolute jelly.

"But I…" She starts but there is a subtle shift in his expression and she feels all power of speech leave her.

"Sarah." He practically cuts her off. "Come with me." A dangerous glimmer in the corner of his eye lets her know that this is no longer a suggestion, but an order. "I promise I'll take care of you." The way he says that shakes the very core of her.

Then he is kissing her and she doesn't even have time to shut her eyes before he lips press heavily upon hers. They are hard and hungry lips. It is as if he is teasing her with the idea of all the dark secrets that wait for her if she yields to him and his request. She can practically hear him telling her to abandon anything that would keep her from coming with him and something in her breaks just a little bit. It feels very similar to how she felt herself break when she realized that he understood her feelings towards Jack last night and she thinks, for just a moment, that he needs her to come with her on this trip with him just as much as she needs to take it.

"Okay." She says when he pulls back and there is that heart breaking smile once again. How could she ever deny him anything?

"Good. Here are your clothes." He stands and gestures to the coffee table behind him.

There, stacked and folded neatly, are her clothes from the day before. Her cotton bra and underwear prominently placed proudly on top of the pile. Horrified, she snatches the pile quickly to her chest and she hears him chuckle. Again – her modesty is novel and somewhat ridiculous at this point.

"Here is money for a taxi." He hands her a few bills and their hands linger as they touch.

He leans over and kisses her. It is soft, sweet, and surprisingly chaste. It leaves a pleasant longing in her belly and plants something that feels suspiciously like hope in her heart. It is small, and seemingly misplaced, but is a warmth long forgotten now present in her being. She knows the danger of it, but she can't help but want to keep it. It has been too long since she had any shred of it in her existence.

"I'll see you in an hour." He promises as he pulls back, smirks, and then turns and exits.

It is only after he is out of her line of sight that the reality of it all begins to sink in. Oh Moses, what has she done? Her mind races at all of the implications, all of the ramifications, all of the justifications, but she can't land on any one of them long enough to form a coherent thought.

She can't breathe.

She can't move.

She can't think.

Then, like a semi-truck, the realization slams into her.

She is going to London with Patrick Spot Conlon and she has less than an hour to be ready. Like a shot she is in motion. The oversized dress shirt is gone and her clothes are on in a flash. She has no idea where Spot has gone or what he is doing, but she doesn't attempt to find him. She grabs her purse and gets in the elevator. It isn't until she gets in the taxi that she realizes that she is shaking.

She is going to London with Patrick Spot Conlon.

The taxi driver asks her where she is going and she says: "London", without thinking. Then hurriedly corrects herself with her proper address. She would have been embarrassed if she thought that the taxi driver even found her response mildly absurd. Thankfully, in a town like New York, chances were high that he's heard a billion other stranger responses than that.

Even at ten in the morning – the traffic sucks.

She finally makes it to her home and practically throws the money at the driver. Her blood is on fire. She knows that if she slows down for even at instant she will talk herself out of going – and she can't afford to do that at this point. Up, up, up the stairs she runs. Up sixteen flights of stairs to her floor and she is out of breath, but keeps moving. She'd like to see some of those gym rats she knows run those stairs like she does.

Her hands shake so badly she can barely get her key in the lock. Maybe it _is_ time to lay off the caffeine, but she doesn't have time to reconcile her addictions now. Now she has thirty minutes to pack everything she could possibly need for overseas travel and make sure her roommate knows that she hasn't been abducted. That and feed her cat. She has to feed her cat.

Something warm and furry rubs against her legs. It is Kid Blink, her cat. The fortunate one-eyed stray had followed her one day and ended up with a home. She absent-mindedly picked up the fluffy blonde feline as she began her rather frantic sweep of the apartment.

Her whole apartment could fit in Spot's living room. The kitchenette, living room, and dining room are all one space. There is one small bathroom and one bedroom she shares with her roommate whom she never sees. From the shared closet she pulls her large suitcase and began throwing things in.

Underwear, sock, toiletries, a few shirts and pairs of pants go in first. Kid Blink attempts several times to claim a spot in the bag as his own, but she will have none of it. In some point in time she would have found the cat's antics amusing, but now she wouldn't allow herself the luxury. Focus. She has to focus. Now is not the time for her indecisive nature to kick in. She can't let herself second guess a single decision or it will take her _years_ to pack, though she wouldn't mind taking her little Blinker with her.

Some shoes, some jewelery that she hopes isn't tacky, a few purses, and she is back to the closet. He is supposed to be there in seven minutes and she still has sixteen flights of stairs to get down with her bag. She is never going to make it.

Her eyes frantically search over her wardrobe for something, anything, that could be considered "nice" enough for some sort of formal event. She's already packed a few skirts and nice blouses, but if there is anything that calls for an especially formal dress-code she is stumped. Except for the dark blue dress that is shoved into the back of the closet, still in its wrapper, where she doesn't have to encounter it accidentally. She could have been wearing that dress last night, but she wasn't. In fact – she wore a shockingly minimal amount of clothing for most of that night. But now – she needs this dress.

Everything within her freezes when her fingers grip the hanger. She had picked out this dress hoping that Jack would see her in it and realizes what a mistake he had made by choosing Jessa. She had picked out this dress hoping that it would make Jack realize that he still loved her. She had picked out this dress hoping that, for one moment, she might feel like she had a chance to compete with Jessa. After seeing the news clip the night before, however, she knew that even if she had a fairy godmother to zap her into the perfect Cinderella fantasy gown she never would have even caught Jack's eye.

All she wants to do is break down and cry, but she can't allow herself to do that. She is done crying. Jack had made his choice and now she was making hers. With numb fingers she lifts the dress out of the closet, folds it carefully, and places it on top of her bag. She doesn't even take a moment to pause before she slams shut the lid and zips it securely.

Kid Blink is meowing quite loudly at her as she rummages through her dresser for her passport and any other identification that she could possibly need. She barely hears him. She throws everything into her purse, grabs a notebook and a pen, and leaves a brief note for her roommate on her bed. Grabbing a hair tie out of the bathroom she throws back her hair into a sloppy ponytail and doesn't even allow herself a glimpse in the mirror. She knows she can't look like someone who is about to travel across the ocean with a millionaire, so why torture herself with the gory details.

It's four minutes before Spot promised to be at her apartment. Quickly she opens a can of Fancy Feast for Kid Blink and dumps it into his bowl. He stops his howling and hurries over to the smelly food. Quickly she fills his water and cleans his litter box before bending over to give him a final scratch.

"Be good while mommy's gone, Blinker." She scratched behind his ears and was rewarded with a satisfied purr.

Holy Moses her bag is heavy. She wishes, in earnest, that just once the elevators of her building wouldn't be under repairs, but her wish wouldn't be granted and she begins the laborious task of hauling it all the way to the street. She hopes Spot is stuck in traffic.

When she makes finally makes it down all of the stairs and out the door – she sees Spot leaning against a black Lexus with all of its windows tinted black. His driver waited along side of him.

"You're three minutes late." He smirked, but she was too out of breath and too flustered to even think to reply.

His driver came over promptly and took her bag in a motion so effortless that she envies him. Where was he to carry her bag down sixteen flights of stairs ago? As the driver loads her bag into the trunk, Spot opens the back passenger door for her. She slides in and he follows.

The car is modified. The front and backseat are separated by leather seats and a pane of black glass. It makes her feel like a celebrity.

"Passport?" He asks.

She digs through her purse and holds up the blue leather bound booklet proudly. He takes it from her and opens it. When he sees her picture – he chuckles.

"I'm not photogenic."

"I never said you weren't."

He hands it back and she replaces it in her purse. They are moving now and her stomach is in knots. What in the hell is she doing? Instead of the fear she so customarily felt – she now is overwhelmed with a giddiness that starts at her toes and bubbles up through her whole system. What in the hell is she doing? She is going to London on a whim because she can and absolutely no one is able to stop her. Take _that_, Jack Kelly, Mr. State Representative. Take _that_, Jessa Kelly, Mrs. State Representative. They aren't the only ones who get to spend a week in some exotic location having sex. She feels absolutely childish when a giggle escapes her mouth, but she can't help it.

"Do you have our tickets?" She asks him in all practicality.

"When you have your own jet, you don't need tickets."

She really shouldn't be surprised that he has his own jet, but she is. Everything about this new, expensive lifestyle throws her off guard, but she is learning very quickly to accept and expect it. Her blank expression of non-comprehension rapidly fades into an impressed smile and another giddy giggle. She is going to London on a private jet. She must be dreaming. It takes a great deal of self control not to pinch herself.

He is smiling at her. It isn't a smirk or his traditional smile, but it was a smile that seemed to be genuinely pleased. He was pleased with her. After spending so many years in self-loathing and disapproval from her family for her attitude towards their precious Jack, she eagerly soaks in the attention. His smile is absolutely unnerving and she can't help but appreciate him. His dark hair is combed neatly back from his face. His black dress shirt is tucked professionally into the charcoal business slacks he'd had on earlier with a black belt. The leather shoes on his feet shine with an impeccablely polished gleam. She knows that she doesn't look her best in any way, shape, or form – but compared to him right now she looks like absolute trailer trash.

"If you need to make any phone calls, now would be the time." He says. "Your cell phone won't work overseas." It makes sense, but she hadn't given it a thought.

Instantly the giddiness disappears as she remembers the cell phone at the bottom of her cluttered purse. It has been there taunting her with the impending return to reality for hours, and now she is faced with that bitter truth. The fact that she is able to abandon that reality again in a matter of moments after the phone calls doesn't matter. What matters is that she is actually going to have to make the calls. She kind of feels awful already knowing that she should have called her mother hours ago just so she wouldn't think she was dead. She knows that she is going to feel even worse when she actually does talk to her mother and hears that all too familiar disappointment and pity that have become the standard tone she gets in most of her conversations now-a-days.

Reluctantly she searches through her purse until she finds the small red block of plastic and metal underneath a pack of travel sized tissues, and hand sanitizer. It is a cheap phone. It doesn't even have a camera on it. She is having serious phone adequacy issues knowing that she is sitting next to a user of the finest piece of cell phone technology on the market. She feels like he is staring and judging her, but a furtive glance shows that he isn't even paying any attention to her motions.

She flips open the cheap Samsung and presses the power button. Despite her silent prayer for it not to, it powers on beautifully with an annoyingly perky ring that she has always secretly despised. The background of her phone is the default, her ring tones the standard, and she doesn't even have a blue tooth. None of this mattered until she was once more reminded of the fact that there are people out in the world like Spot who have _everything_.

Her screen reads: _37 Missed Calls._ Last night when she had turned off her phone she had absolutely none. The little icon at the top of the screen indicates that she has voicemails and text messages. She doesn't doubt it. She doesn't doubt it at all. Maybe she _should_ have turned on the news this morning just to see if she was on it as an abductee. She knows that she should listen to these messages, but not now. Maybe not ever. She knows what they all say.

_Where are you?_

_Why aren't you at the wedding?_

_Are you all right?_

She swears she is going to kill someone. If any of those people knew her at all they would have never expected her to be at the damn wedding.

She calls her boss. It is before lunch will be too busy, but they will be prepping and clearing out breakfast now. Hopefully she'll catch her at a good time. Then again – is there ever a good time to tell someone that you won't make any of your shifts for a week?

It is brief and in the matter of sixty seconds she doesn't have a job anymore.

People always tell her that things happen the blink of an eye, but never more so in her life until these past twenty-four hours.

"I'm unemployed." She says as she hangs up and he looks at her now.

"Don't worry about it." The way he says it tells her that she honestly has nothing about which to worry, but that is easy for him to say. He could sell his company, retire, and live comfortably for the rest of his life. She doesn't even have enough savings to last a month.

"I promised I would take care of you." His puts his hand on her thigh and she automatically feels her body respond to the contact. "Trust me."

The words are simple but the request is not. She can barely trust herself to choose what to wear in the morning. How is she supposed to trust him with something as consequential as her well being? But it is too late for those thoughts. The phone call is done. Her job is lost. She is on her way to London. She, Sarah Jacobs, is on her way to London with a man who has his own jet. Jack Kelly may have the benefit of air travel to Washington DC and back, but does he have his own jet? Is Jack Kelly a multimillionaire who started and owns his own exceedingly profitable and thriving dotcom business? She doesn't think so. She knows it is petty to compare Jack to Spot, but it just feels so damn good.

He leans back against the seat and sighs. His dark head lolls back against the headrest and he closes his eyes.

"You really should call your mother."

How does he fucking do that?

"I was about to."

His head rolls to the side and he opens his cerulean blue eyes in mocking disbelief.

"I'm calling her right now." She flips open her phone and starts to dial. Each number fills her with increasing dread.

Maybe she won't answer. Maybe she could just leave a message. Yeah. Because that would be great. What in the world would she even say?

_Hey. Sorry I didn't make it to the wedding. I ran into Spot from high school. I went to his pent house and fucked him and now he is taking me to London for a week so you won't be able to reach me. By the way – I lost my job. Bye!_

No. She doesn't think that is the best way to go about things, but it would sure be refreshing to be able to just get it all out there for once and not care about offending anyone. She's never been able to do that. There are a lot of things she has never been able to do. Going to London was one of them. Using profanity in front of her mother is another.

The phone rings four times before her mother answers it and Sarah's throat is so tight she barely manages a greeting. It doesn't help that Spot is staring.

"Hi mom." It is small and weak. Not exactly the impression she wants to make on her mother right now.

"Sarah? Where have you been? We've been nearly sick with worry!" Esther Jacobs voice holds more condescension than relief at the sound of her only daughter's voice.

"I'm sorry." She apologizes, but only for making them worry, she doesn't regret anything else.

"Didn't you get my calls?"

"My phone was off."

"And you didn't turn it back on?"

"Not until a few seconds ago." It is the truth, but she feels like she should have made up a better reason for not calling. She knows that her mother will just think her selfish for the reason she gave now, but truth be told – it is about damn time Sarah Jacobs is a little selfish.

"That's not very responsible of you, Sarah." Esther admonishes and Sarah feels like she is thirteen again and had missed curfew. She is absolutely sure that she is visibly shrinking under her mother's questions. "Where were you last night? Everyone kept asking about you and I had no idea what to say."

"I didn't feel well." It is only half a lie, but her mother doesn't have to know that.

"Jack was so upset that you weren't there. He had been so looking forward to seeing you." Her mother clucks her tongue but Sarah barely hears the familiar sound of shaming.

Jack had wanted her there? Jack had missed having her there? Oh no. She is going to cry. No. She is going to faint. No. She is going to puke. Oh shit.

"Mom I'm going to London." Verbal vomit. Okay. That is better than actual vomit but not by much. At least it is a change of subject.

There is dead silence on the other end of the line for exactly three beats.

"Are you still there, mom?"

"You're going _where_?" She could have been offended by the tone her mother took, but she isn't. Twenty-four hours ago she never would have thought that she would be going anywhere except to work today, so it isn't far fetched at all that her mother wouldn't believe her.

"England. London. I'm leaving in a few minutes." Again – not entirely true, but close enough. She is leaving today. Who cares when? "I'll be back in a week."

"How in the world can you afford to go to London? Where are you staying? Do you even have your passport?" Esther doesn't even take a breath.

"Mom I have to go." Sarah cuts off her mothers continuous string of questions. If she let her - Sarah's mother's questions will remind her of all the answers she isn't ready to provide. "I'll call you when I'm back in the states. Bye." She could hear her mother still sputtering on the other end when she pushes the 'end' button and powers off her phone.

It is an amazingly freeing and imprisoning moment all within a split second. She is half tempted to throw her phone out the window and be done with it – but she doesn't have the budget to replace it. Instead she shoves it the bottom of her purse and tries to forget the screen saying _37 Missed Calls_.

She also tries to forget the fact that her mother is probably absolutely livid. Her mother is probably calling all of the airlines trying to find out which flight she is on or calling her dad, or brother, or even Jack trying to find out more about what is going on. For once, however, Sarah will come out on top of this one, at least until she comes back and her mother has the proper time to release all hell upon her.

It really isn't fair.

If David had been the one to place the call – her mother would have not given it a second thought.

But he is a boy.

And she is a girl.

And sexism is a bitch forever and ever amen.

Not to mention that David had been at the wedding last night. Also that he is married to a lovely Jewish girl and is in a very lucrative and prestige oriented job. _David_ actually made something of himself. _David_ has potential. _David_ is accomplished. Well David can suck it. That traitorous back-stabbing bastard picking Jack over her feelings. Again – she knows it is childish, but she is done being the bigger person. For the next seven days she doesn't have to give a shit and she intends to try to not. The week is all about not having anything to do with David, or her mother, or Jack, or Jessa. This week is about her.

"What did you do with the picture?"

"Put it in my private collection."

She isn't sure what that means or if she believes him, but she can't do anything about it now. Somehow putting her picture in a private collection makes her feel like he is collecting nude drawings like scientists collect bugs; like he has all of them categories and cross references by certain attributes and characteristics for easy access and reference. Perhaps he does. That thought gives her the creeps, but it is part of the intrigue. How many pictures exactly are in that private collection? She doesn't have the right to be jealous, but she kind of is.

It is a silent, but comfortable, car trip to the air strip. Spot doesn't say anything about the phone call to her mother, for which she is thankful. The conversation itself was painful enough without rehashing every nitty-gritty detail. Especially the part about Jack. She needs to stop thinking about him. She'll never get over him if she keep thinking about him.

So she tries to focus on other things, but every second that passes by is another second she has to become more anxious than she was before. The abbreviate conversation with her mother was enough to leave her less than sure footed. Just exactly _what_ was she doing going to England? No matter what her disposition towards her mother and her family at this given point in time, they are still her family. They have known her through the entire course of her life. They have seen her at her some of her best times and some of her worst. Why can't she trust them the way that she is trusting Spot?

And _who_ exactly is Patrick Spot Conlon besides a guy she knew from high school and used to see socially? Who is he and _why_ was he so eager and insistent on having her come with him on this trip? Certainly he doesn't need her. He has enough money and contacts to have all the company in the world if he so desires it. What benefit could he see in bringing her along with him on the adventure? She personally is having difficulties figuring out the mathematics on this one.

But then she looks at her thigh and sees his hand still resting there. She feels the warmth and weight of it on her leg, she lets her eyes venture up his arm, to his shoulder, to his neck (is that a hickey?), to his face. When he catches her glancing at him – he looks over at her and gives her a disarming smile. There is no way in hell he hasn't practiced that. _Trust me_. He had said. _I said I would take care of you_. He had told her and, honestly, that sounds pretty damn good. It has been a long time since anyone has taken care of her and she is damn ready to accept the offer.

He is probably a serial killer, but she isn't going to give a shit.

This is probably nothing more than a glorified booty call, but she isn't going to give a shit.

For once in her life she is taking a risk and she'll be damned if she doesn't go all the way with it. She's been saving up twenty seven years worth of risks for this one chance and she isn't going to blow it by being an indecisive chicken. At least she will know if she is just karmically cursed or if it really is just New York that has given her a shitty run.

When they arrive at the airstrip they drive straight onto the tarmac. There is no waiting in lines or checking in bags. There are no grumpy gate people or jet lagged jerks with whom to deal. There is just a man opening the door of the Lexus and escorting her and Spot to the staircase and off of the noisy tarmac. She's only seen stuff like this is in movies. This is the life.

They are inside before she knows what is happening and the interior is exquisite. Even though she had anticipated it to be nicer than a normal airplane, she didn't really understand the extent of it. Against one wall there are four burgundy seats, two sets of two, facing each other. They are massively plush and large – nothing like the economy grade she flew in once. The carpet is soft beneath her feet instead of feeling like she is walking on metal. There are end tables made out of mahogany stained wood beside the seats. Against the other wall there is a couch with end tables. There is a plasma screen television mounted on one of the walls. The cabin is lacking the overhead carry-on storage of commercial flights and is much more spacious than she is used to. Even his jet is nicer than her apartment.

She stops at first when she steps inside, just out of the awe of it all, until she feels Spot's hand on her back guiding her further inside. As strange as this sounds – she can feel that he is smiling. She doesn't know if she can ever go back to regular air-travel after this.

"Care for a drink?" He asks once they are inside and he goes over to a low cabinet and opens it. He pulls out a few different liquors.

"Aren't you supposed to wait to serve drinks until after take off?"

"Not when you're a big kid." He pours himself a brandy.

"I'll have what you're having."

He gives her a curious flick of an eyebrow, but pours her the drink anyway. His expression is well warranted. She has never had brandy. She's never had anything harder than a glass of wine or a sip of a margarita but she's already said yes to a million things she'd never said yes to before today – so why stop now? It is absolutely invigorating.

He carries their drinks over to the chairs and she follows. She sits and sinks at least three inches into the chair's cushions. Oh man this is the life. He sits across from her and hands her one of the cups.

"Mr. Conlon, we're ready to take off." A voice comes from behind her seat and Spot looks up at him approvingly.

"Thank you, Captain." He is absolutely sincere in his thanks.

Again she taken off guard by the formality of it all. The captain actually comes back here to inform them of things instead of coming over a tinny sounding intercom. There are no tacky airline hostesses making motions with their hands to tell them where the exits are and how to use their seat as a floatation device. She just soaks it all in.

Spot places his drink on the table beside him. She follows suit and they both buckle their seat belts before picking back up their brandy.

"I'd like to propose a toast." Spot says just as she was about to raise the glass to her lips.

"A toast?"

"Yes. A toast to London." He raises his glass.

"To London." Sarah agrees and taps the rim of her glass to his.

Immediately Spot brings the glass to his lips and takes a confident swig. It is obvious that he is well versed in the manners of brandy consumption. She doesn't give herself time to think about it or hesitate. Much as the same mentality she had in her apartment as she had packed – she now takes the cup to her mouth and takes a decent swallow of the amber liquid.

Oh it burns. The overwhelming warmth slides down her throat and she coughs a little. Tears well up in her eyes and she is fairly certain she is turning a little red.

"Perhaps I should have toasted to the hopes that you can hold your liquor much better than you can drink it." Spot laughs and Sarah could be offended. The feminist in her told her that she _should_ be offended, but instead she laughs with him.

There is no denying that this is the start of some kind of adventure, and at this point, she doesn't care if it is good or bad.

To London, indeed.

She finishes her brandy before he does.

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**A/N**: So this chapter is _slightly_ shorter than the last one, but since the last one was over 10,000 words I didn't think anyone would complain. Obviously any update on this thing is going to be a beast. I have more ideas for this swimming around in my brain, but we will see where it goes or if it goes. Like I said before – I'm not stressing this fiction as much as I am just using it as a tool to get myself to think creatively in the Newsieverse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Jessa belongs to Stress. She is just letting me borrow her because she is super nice.

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**A/N**: Yeah, yeah, yeah…. I don't know what it is about this piece that keeps dragging me back to write another 1X,XXX words every few months, but I have never been one to deny the muses. I have more ideas for this piece than I know what to do with. So it will probably get updated again at some point in time. When? That is a good question. I don't have an answer for that. Like I said before, this is a floater piece. That and I absolutely suck at commitment. Ask any boyfriend I've ever had.

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**Warning**: PG-15 (language, non-explicit sex, adult situations)

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She's been in an airplane twice in her whole life. It had been for a trip with her high school debate club. They had gone to Chicago her sophomore year for a tournament. She didn't like it then and she was pretty sure she isn't going to like it now and it is going to take her a whole lot more than one glass of brandy to convince her otherwise.

He notices even though she is trying her damn hardest to hide the anxiousness that is churning in her belly. Maybe brandy wasn't a good idea. Sympathetically he unbuckles his seat belt as the plane begins to taxi towards its departure runway and moves to sit beside her. Taking the seat next to her, he leans back comfortably and covers one of her hands as it maintains a solid death grip on the plush armrest.

"The take off is the worst part. Don't worry. It'll be over soon." She looks at him as he speaks. He smiles and squeezes her hand in reassurance. Instantly – her panic melts.

Where had he been her sophomore year on that horrible adventure? She had only joined debate because Jack was in it. It had been right when they had started dating. Innocent, carefree, and so obviously certain that Jack was "the one", it had seemed like a good idea at the time. That was until she actually had to get up in front of people and state her mind. Always too afraid to offend anyone and unwilling to step on any toes – Sarah had been far less than the star debater. Jack, on the other hand, was the golden boy of the team. It shouldn't surprise anyone, it certainly doesn't surprise her, that his now profession focuses a great deal on those skills he excelled in back in debate. He, essentially, could get up in front of any number of people and make up shit that sounded convincing. At least now he can afford to pay people to make up shit for him.

People like her traitor of a brother.

She really needs to get over this or else holidays are going to be awkward as hell.

But really, where had Spot been on that plane ride her sophomore year? He had been a senior just like Jack, but he hadn't been on debate. She couldn't really remember Spot being a part of any particular extra-curricular activity. Granted she had never made the effort to really talk to him about that and figure out anything of the sort for herself. All she knew was that she had sat next to Jack and had felt a million times less secure than she does now.

That first take off, she had hurled in one of those little paper barf bags provided by the airline just as they took off. Jack had been embarrassed, but she had nearly shriveled completely with humiliation. The rest of the trip her nick name had been "Barf". To say the least that is not the fondest memory she has of the whole trip. There aren't a lot of memories that she finds particularly fond about that whole experience, actually. In her now more jaded state she can see that the whole thing was a hot mess. In her irrational youth she had tried to justify everything into wonderfulness just because Jack was there, but now she sees just how a little time and perspective can turn shining gold into tarnished brass.

They are picking up speed. She can feel the acceleration with every fiber of her being and the tension instantly jolts back into her system. It is worse than she remembers. The rushing, the sound of the engines picking up steam, the rushing wind outside, and the undeniable finality of knowing that any moment they are going to be lifted off the ground.

Nausea just sets in when she feels something touch her face. It is Spot's hand on her cheek. He turns her face towards him and before another thought can enter her head – he is kissing her. It is a hard demanding kiss that doesn't give her any room for negotiation. The hand on her cheek slipped back behind her head and doesn't let her pull away. Not like she was going to. This was all too much of a pleasant surprise.

It isn't long before his tongue slicks out to taste her lips. She lets him and tastes him in turn. Remnants of brandy cling to his breath. Absently she wonders what she tastes like. If she tastes half as good as he does – she could be just fine with that. It is several long minutes before he pulls back and smoothes a few stray hairs away from her face.

"Didn't even notice the take off." He grins at her when her happily hazed expression fades into wide eyed realization.

She _didn't_ notice when they took of. The dreaded lurch and feelings of weightlessness had been completely forgotten the moment that Spot had pressed his mouth to hers. It was a dirty trick on his part. Or was it? They were now ascending into the sky and she isn't experiencing any kind of nausea. There is no is no tingling in her throat or grumblings in her stomach. Her track record for not throwing up is now two for three. Not a perfect track record, but she will take a sixty six percent chance she won't blow chunks over a fifty percent chance any day.

"No. I guess not." She smiles back after the initial shock wears off.

He leans in and gives her a quick congratulatory kiss before settling back into his seat.

In the few silent moments that followed – Sarah's body was not so quiet.

She needs a cigarette. Now.

Up to this point she has been moving at a million miles per hour and unable to realize or recognize her craving. Now, however, it is there like ugly on an ape. The creeping addiction is swimming through her veins playing the serpent to her Eve.

There aren't any "no smoking" signs anywhere in this plane. No overhead illuminated lights telling her that her less than healthy pastime was forbidden. The plane doesn't smell like smoke at all, but knowing Spot this thing is probably detailed after every flight.

"Is it okay if I smoke in here?" she asks.

"I thought you quit." He is mocking her, but she takes it as permission.

Digging into her purse, she finds her crumpled pack of cigarettes dangerously close to that damn cell phone she had almost managed to put out of her mind. _37 Missed Calls_. She doesn't even want to know how many text messages are going to be added to that equation when she finally gets back into the states and has to deal with reality once again.

Now, however, she is on a plane. And regardless of whether or not there is a "no cell phone" light – she is making the executive decision that cell phones are expressly forbidden on this flight. And what she means by "on-this-flight" is "on-the-rest-of-this-fucking-trip".

She extends the crumpled pack of Marlboros towards Spot with a bit of self consciousness. She remembers the slim silver case of imports that he had last night and completely expects him to snub her offer. It surprises her when it takes one without as much as a sarcastic look.

"Got a light?" He raises one eye brow as she fishes her Bic from the bottomless pit of her purse.

"Here." This time it is her turn to give him a light.

The little yellow flame jumps up from the cheap purple plastic and he inhales deeply to get that tell-tale glow at the end of his smoke. Once he is lit, she gives herself the same favor and savors that first glorious burn of nicotine. Oh it is just what she needs. Dark, bitter and fulfilling the need her mouth feels to open itself and ask Spot all kinds of ridiculous questions just to fill the silence. Yeah. There will be plenty of time for conversation, but not in the first twenty minutes of a seven hour flight.

"How's Les?" he asks between drags.

It seems like a strange question. How is Les? He hadn't really been a relevant part of any stage of their relationship. Sure, her kid brother had tagged along on a few of their adventures, but nothing that really warranted comment. She remembers back in high school, some lazy summer day, Spot had shown Les how to use a slingshot. It was a moment that her mother had come to rue for years to come. Les had become quite a hellion with that weapon while trying to improve his accuracy. In fact – she remembers more about how Les got in trouble for it than she really remembers it having anything to do with Spot.

Her kid brother had always been more partial to Jack. Everything in that boy wanted to be just like her brother's best friend and, eventually, her boyfriend. At one point in time Sarah wouldn't have minded her Les to grow up to be just like Jack, but now she is glad that he has picked a different path. Hopefully a path that doesn't involve him breaking a girl's heart when she finds out that he is sleeping with her roommate.

"He's well." She replies simply. "He's at Princeton now. He's got a full ride."

"Princeton, huh?" He asks like he is actually surprised, or impressed, or something. She doesn't doubt for a moment that he doesn't already know that. "That's quite an accomplishment."

"Yeah. He is brilliantly gifted." And it is true. Everything that boy touched turned to gold, academically or otherwise.

"What is he studying?"

What isn't he studying? Would be a more appropriate question.

"His scholarships are mainly because of his painting, but I think he looking to major in Biological Engineering and Chemistry." She couldn't be prouder of her little brother and his accomplishments, but she hears a bitterness creep into her tone.

Both of her brothers are accomplished, successful, educated men. Both of them have promising futures and endless possibilities. David has a beautiful wife who is equally accomplished and wonderful. Les calls her every week to tell her about some new amazingly complex thing that he is learning or tell her about his latest painting. He even has his own art show coming up that is being highly publicized by the University, hailing her brother as some sort of protégé, a reincarnation of one of the great painters of old. She couldn't be prouder of that. She couldn't love Les more if she tried.

But inside all she knows is that her little brother's success is just another jab at the fact that she is miserably mediocre at best.

"He wants to be a doctor." She is dangerously close to being done with her cigarette. Normally she is fine with just one, but the topic of conversation has made her nervous and jittery all over again. "He'll probably cure cancer."

"Probably." Spot agrees. "There was always something special about that kid." He says reflectively.

What wouldn't she do just to have something special about her?

"Yeah. Mama and Papa are pretty pleased." She smiles what she hopes isn't a sad smile.

One of the only times she can remember her parents being pleased was when she told them that she and Jack were no longer together. The single worst moment of her life was the moment that brought joy to her parents. Now she could marry a good, proper Jewish boy instead of some "uncircumcised Gentile" as her papa liked to call the non-Jewish boys she dated. To this day she has never said a word about the fact that Jack may be a Gentile, but he is, by no means, uncircumcised. The conversation that would have followed that would no doubt trigger Armageddon.

Spot isn't uncircumcised either.

The thought makes her blush.

She hopes he doesn't notice.

He does.

Thankfully he doesn't say anything, but the smirk he gives her says enough. He always knows what she is thinking.

"I have some work I have to get done." He puts the finished butt of his cigarette into his empty glass. "But if you want there are some books over in that cupboard that you can read." He gestures and it takes her a moment to process what he is saying.

He has work. Of course he does. He is running a company. He is going on a business trip. Of course he has work to do. That is one perk of being a waitress – once you are off the clock you have no work left to do. A busy corporate executive doesn't have that luxury. Work follows them where ever they go. But then again – they get to do it in a private jet or their penthouse apartment. Ah the wonders of tradeoffs.

She can feel that the plane is still ascending to its flying altitude. Vaguely she remembers that you aren't supposed to get up until the plane is stabilized, but there are no "seatbelt buckled" signs here either. So she unbuckled herself and goes over to the cupboard he had gestured to. It takes a solid tug to open, but the door swings wide with a pop.

There are _a lot_ of books.

At first glance she sees that there are several books about Alexander the Great, Nero, Rameses III, and Napoleon Bonaparte; All men who ruled the world before they were thirty. She glances over her shoulder towards Spot, but he has already pulled out his briefcase and is going through stacks of important looking papers. Ruling the world before they are thirty is a far fetched dream for most, but Spot is the emperor of the dotcom world. There are volumes of books about World War I and II and their leaders: Winston Churchill and Adolf Hilter are the leading players.

She notices a small paper back shoved between the massive hardbound texts and takes a closer look. _Public Speaking Without Fear_ is the title. Could Spot possibly be afraid of public speaking? She realizes that the majority of the population would rather die than give a speech, but Spot? The idea that this powerful, self-assured, charismatic man is potentially afraid of giving a speech is strangely endearing.

None of the titles particularly catch her eye, until she looks at the bottom shelf in near the corner and sees something that is very out of place among the most masculine titles: _The Complete Works of Jane Austin_. Carefully she pulls out the thick, leather bound anthology and opens it. The spine creaks from neglect, but the pages look well worn and well read. Her eyes skim the page where the book fell open to naturally. It is the passage from _Pride and Prejudice_ where Mr. Darcy first proposed to Elizabeth. She finds it an odd place for the book to mark as familiar, but she doesn't mind. It is her favorite part, too.

She makes her way back over towards where Spot was working. His laptop is on his lap and he is typing furiously. He isn't scowling, but his face is definitely stoic, focused, determined. He appears to have perfect tunnel vision.

He must get lonely.

It is a strange thought, but it hits her suddenly as she sits across from him. The seat next to him is full of papers and his briefcase. She tries to not take it personally. After all, the reason she is getting to go to London is because he has business there and she is to help keep him from going "insane from British formalities". This is part of the deal, but she still can't help but think he must get lonely.

He doesn't even have a cat.

She has sympathy for the oddest parts of life.

With that, she curls her legs underneath her body and begins to read.

It is like coming home to an old friend. The words are familiar and cherished, but still they enthrall her. Maybe she is in the mood for a happy ending today.

They stay this way for a few hours and she is perfectly content to be so. It is peaceful. The clattering of the keyboard, rustling of papers, or the turning of a page punctuates the silence. Occasionally there are words, but they aren't important.

She has finished _Pride and Prejudice_ and has moved into the beginning of _Sense and Sensibility_ when she hears the laptop close. Peering up over the end of her book, she sees him smirking at her.

"I remember you liking to read." He comments.

"I _was_ an English major." She points out.

"I remember that, too."

She wonders what else he could possibly remember about her? Hopefully nothing too embarrassing. Then again – he has seen her naked. He has _drawn_ her naked. How much more embarrassing can you get? She doesn't want to know the answer.

He is cleaning up his papers, tucking things into folders and stashing them away in his attaché case. Then he stands and takes both of their ash-filled brandy snifters over to the bar where he'd gotten them.

"Want another drink?" He is already pouring himself something.

"Sure." Why not? She is going to London.

"Anything in particular?"

"Surprise me."

He gives her a smug, approving look. She gives him a smile that feels like it might be cheeky.

He brings her something. She isn't sure what it is at first, but from the looks of it – it isn't brandy.

"It's just a little gin and tonic." He tells her. "We have to find out what kind of drink I am supposed to order for you when we go out for dinner." The way he says it like there is an undeniable certainty to that fact that they will be going out together gives her a pleasant chill. Like he needs to know this about her because he is going to use it for a long time, not just one week.

She tries to not let her hopes rise too high, but it is just too fun to hope again.

She takes a sip and it stings her nose. To her it tastes a little bit like drinking pine needles - cool and sharp.

"Not gin and tonic?" He asks and she shakes her head. She likes it all right, but it doesn't think she will always want to drink it. "Fair enough."

He sits next to her, brandy in hand.

"Drinks for two is much more pleasant than drinks for one." He suggests and she has to agree. Nothing spells pathetic quite like pouring a glass of wine for yourself and sitting next to your cat while you drink it.

"How is Jane today?" He asks and it takes her a moment to interpret the question.

"Oh. The book." She says aloud and immediately feels dumb. "It is good. She used to be one of my favorites."

"Used to be?"

"Yeah. I still like her. I guess my tastes have changed."

It was one of her favorite books when she was naïve and optimistic. Back when she actually believed that something like this could happen and that true love would conquer all. It has been years since the last time she picked up any Jane Austin. Her tastes in literature have become much more dreary than they used to be back when she was with Jack. Now, more often than not, she prefers bittersweet endings.

Or just bitter endings.

She is partial to the idea that other people are suffering. It makes it easier if she believes that other people are just as miserable as she is and that she isn't the only pathetic shit of a person out there.

"I was surprised to find this in your library." She held up the leather bound collection. "It didn't seem to fit in very well with your other titles."

"No? Well, I suppose I felt that my library needed a feminine touch. The female authors and romance genre are highly underrepresented in most of my readings." He admits with a coy grin. "I find real women much more intriguing than reading about them on a page."

The way he says it makes something curl and tighten in stomach in the best way possible.

"I guess there is a lot to know about us." She admits. "I still haven't figured us out yet and I've been one for… years." She takes a drink when he remembers her age. That might be something worth forgetting.

Since when was she closer to being thirty than she was closer to being twenty?

"Twenty-eight." He states and she looks at him blankly. "I'm twenty-eight. I'll be twenty-nine this year. My birthday was last December" He informs.

Twenty-eight. Could that even be possible?

"I'm twenty-six." She has a hard time saying it. "My birthday is next month." More like two weeks away.

"April eighth." He states and she starts.

"How did you know that?" She has no idea what day his birthday is.

"I'm good with dates."

"I don't remember ever telling you that."

"That doesn't mean you didn't."

She supposes it is possible that her date of birth had come up in conversation. Or he remembers from high school. It just seemed strange that he would remember something like that. The human mind is a fascinating thing.

"Where is the restroom on this thing?" She asks after a moment. She assumes that there is one. She hopes that there is one. She needs to pee.

"In the back through that door." He points.

She sets down her drink as she stands and he grabs her wrist. At first she is surprised at the contact, but then he pulls her down towards him gently and cheats his face towards her. They kiss, soft and sweet, before he lets her straighten and go about her business.

The bathroom is right where he said it would be. While it is better decorated than a public airlines', it is still just as tiny. There is barely any room. She flushes as she finishes and looks in the mirror as she vigorously washes her hands. She still doesn't look any better than she did the last time she looked into a mirror.

She takes her hand down from her pony tail and sees the expected result. The roots of her hair were completely flat up till the telltale pony-tail crease – then it was a large poof of dirty brown hair. Her makeup is long gone, but there is a certain glow to her skin and light in her eye. It is faint, but there is a life in her that she hadn't seen in a long time.

Getting away from it all looks good on her.

The door opens just as she throws her hair back into her pony tail and she jumps from fright. It is Spot. He steps in without a word and shuts the door behind them. With both of their bodies in the tiny space there is hardly room to turn around. His arms snake around her torso and pull her flush against him. The amount of time between where he pulls her body to him and his lips being pressed against hers is barely measurable. Unlike the kiss just a few minutes before – this is hard and demanding.

His hand is in her hair, twisting her head, making her gasp so her can slide his tongue into her mouth. Her nails dig into his back and he makes a noise that sounds like a growl in the back of his throat. She feels it just as much as she hears it. Her tongue duels against his, fighting for dominance, but not really caring if she is vanquished. He is doing absolutely wonderful things to her body.

She doesn't care how it happens, only that it does happen, when he turns her around and pushes her against the small sink counter. He moves quickly. Her pants are around her knees in a matter of seconds.

There is no room to breathe in here. She is wedged between the hard counter top and the hard body of her lover and there is no where else in the whole world she would rather be. Oh Moses the noises he is making with every roll of his hips. She is making him make those noises. She, Sarah Jacobs, is the one that is driving him crazy – and she is more than fine with that. There are going to be bruises on the fronts of her thighs tonight from the sharp edge of the counter and she is glad of that. She wants him to bruise her. She craves the proof that all of this isn't just some dream.

They are both close. She can feel him straining, hear the pressure in his voice as he whispers terribly dirty things in her ear (she can only hope that he'll follow through on half of them). She goes first and he follows shortly after before collapsing on top of her back.

"Welcome to the Mile High club." He rasps into her ear with a chuckle and she laughs along with him.

She feels him smile against the back of her neck before he plants a quick kiss there and straightens. They clean up a little awkwardly in the small space, but she likes the way he laughs and the way they are comfortable together like this. It is almost like they have been lovers for years.

"You want to watch a movie?" He asks once they are back in the main compartment of the plane.

"Sure." She agrees, hoping that his choice of films is a little more diverse than the choice of literature.

It isn't.

There are a plethora of action and sci-fi flicks along with history documentaries. They are all pretty typical 'guy' movies.

"Let's watch this one." He pulls out a case: _Last of the Mohicans_. She has heard of it, but never watched it and it looks a lot more appealing than a documentary on World War II aircraft.

"All right." She agrees and follows him over to the chairs. He pushes a switch on the wall and a screen lowers from the ceiling. While it lowers, he goes to a machine towards the front of the plane and loads the disc. It takes a few moments, but then the projector puts the image on the screen. Before he joins her on the chairs, he opens a small hatch and pulls out two large, micro fleece blankets.

They settle in and watch the film together. It is much more romantic than Sarah would give the title credit for. It isn't a happy ending, which she appreciates, but other than that she doesn't get a whole lot out of the film. She has a hard time focusing on the film for a lot of the time because Spot was holding her hand under the blankets. Every time his thumb runs across the sensitive skin of her hand – she was completely unable to think of anything but him.

By the time the film is over they are getting ready to land. The co-captain comes out of the cockpit and informs them that it is time to buckle up. Spot raises the screen before he settles in beside her once more. She isn't quite sure where all the time went, but is glad that they are about to be safe on the ground. In England.

"Are you nervous?" he asks.

"Not too bad. Why?" she replies. Takeoffs are always worse for her than landings.

"Just always looking for a reason to kiss you." He says in a way that makes her blush. His attention is intoxicating.

"You can just kiss me anyway." She offers and he seems to ponder that proposition for a moment.

"All right. If you insist." And he does.

It is almost romantic. She chalks up his affection to hormones, but doesn't protest the persistent attentions of his lips. It has been a long time since the last time she had been properly kissed. That is until yesterday when Spot reappeared on her radar. She has full intentions of taking advantage of this turn of events.

They break apart when they touch down and she is a little breathless.

He just smirks at her.

Getting off the plane is a little bit like getting on the plane, except backwards. And in England. The weather is surprisingly comparable to New York City. She's heard that it would be, but somehow she expected it to be much different – like something would pop out and be distinctly British right away. Nothing is.

It isn't disappointing, but it is disorienting.

Had they just flown in a big circle and come back to where they had started?

She is sure that isn't the case. Her purse is thrown over her shoulder as she walks in stride with Spot into the terminal. They are escorted by a well armed man into a line of other people. The airport is a swirling mass of humanity and foreign languages and she has no idea what is going on for a moment. Then she sees the large sign saying "CUSTOMS AND IMMIGRATION".

They are going to check their bags.

She turns to ask Spot a question, but he is on his phone. No doubt already conducting some sort of business. So she stands silently and moves when the person in front of them moves.

Customs is a strange place. Even though they come in on their own private jet, they are filtered through the same overly-sterile area of potential personal property invasion. It seems strangely invasive and she is needlessly nervous. Too many bad made-for-TV-movies have made her wary of strangers slipping narcotics into her bags without warning and getting her trucked away to some foreign prison. But her bag hasn't been in some shady local or subject to mobsters. At least she hopes it hasn't.

It isn't that she is bored, but the waiting in line scenario is boring, especially when your travel buddy has disconnected to reconnect with the actual world. Distantly she wonders if her cell phone would work here, but she has already banished the terrible piece of equipment to the bottom of her purse until she gets back.

It is their turn to go through the immigration line before Spot gets off of his phone. Haplessly she digs out her passport as she walks up to the desk. An imposing woman with a unibrow and a foul expression snatches the passport from Sarah's hands. It is all Sarah can do to not yelp in surprise. With Spot fifty feet away and the woman who looks like she could be a professional wrestler taking her ticket – she feels very small indeed.

But before she knows it there is a stamp in her passport and she is being moved forward into a mass of people who all look jetlagged and miserable. There is a hand on the small of her back and she turns to see Spot at her side without a cell phone to his ear.

"Welcome to England." He smiles and she feels herself smile instantly in return.

For a moment she thinks he will kiss her – but he doesn't.

She is surprised how disappointed she is with that.

The whole experience is a whirlwind. She never touches her bag. Someone else is always grabbing it and Spot is always ordering someone to do something. Before she knows it they are in a cab and are scurrying off to their hotel.

They drive on the wrong side of the road of England.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this, but it still sets her on edge every time she sees an on-coming car. There are crooked lines on the streets too that she doesn't remember being standard issue in the United States. But she isn't in the United States. She is in the United Kingdom. She, Sarah Jacobs, is in England.

Hell. Fucking. Yes.

It is dark outside. After all it is nearly ten o'clock at night where they are. Her brain can't quite register the lateness. Her biological clock tells her that it should be closer to dinner time than bedtime, but she isn't complaining besides the lack of ability to see the scenery. Hopefully she will have plenty of time this week to take it all in.

It doesn't take too long to get to their destination. The hotel is huge, tall, old, and made out of stone. The pointed arches and flying buttresses lend themselves towards the gothic period of architecture. She flashes back to the Art History class she took for a general education credit. Professor Jolivette would be so proud of her now. Too bad she can't retroactively use it to help her grade.

The cab driver opens the door for her and she slides out with Spot not too far behind. The driver has their bags on the curb and Spot is paying him as she stares up at the impressive stone masonry of the building. She probably would have had an easier time passing Art History if the class had taken her to see all of these kinds of great works in person. Staring at pictures in text books doesn't give you a proper appreciation for such things.

A bellhop in a red jacket and cap with gold tassels and white gloves comes over to them the moment Spot finishes his business with the taxi cab diver. He is young and handsome and looks like something right out of a movie.

"Help you and the lady with your bags, sir?" he asks with the most divinely British accent imaginable.

"Yes, please." Spot nods and his hand is on the small of her back again, this time guiding her towards the rotating glass doors.

She is thankful for his guidance.

The doors envelopes them into a temporary glass cage before releasing them into what appears to Sarah to be a palace. Everything is in blue and gold with rich mahogany wood and sweeping tapestry. The floor is marble and every footstep and sound echoes off of its shining surface. Water trickles and spurts from a fountain in the middle of a large sunken courtyard area. Giant chandeliers hang from high ceilings and give light to the area. To the right of the door there is a large concierge desk made out of the same dark wood as the molding. Beside it, a large marble staircase with wrought iron and wood banisters extend upwards.

Everything about this place looks expensive.

Or breakable.

Or both.

She probably can't even afford to breathe in a place like this.

But Spot's hand is still on her back and he is still leading her. She is still soaking it all in when she finds herself in front of the concierge desk with another scowling British woman staring at her. Unlike the woman at the customs desk – this woman is beautiful in the way that you would think a royalty should be. Her face has character, strength, and dignity, but there is coldness to her expression that makes you hesitate. Or at least it makes Sarah hesitate. It doesn't seem to phase Spot.

"You're new." He says simply and that phrase gives Sarah pause. He is here enough to know who would be new?

"Yes, sir." She appears slightly taken aback by his comment.

"I'm Patrick Conlon. I'm here for my room." He states plainly and her icy eyes widen slightly.

"Of course, Mr. Conlon." She immediately snaps into action. New or not, she seems to know the procedure when dealing with Spot. Or Patrick. Or Mr. Conlon. Or what ever the hell he is called.

She gives him two plastic cards that look like credit cards and a small smile after only a few moments.

"Let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, Mr. Conlon." She sounds completely sincere.

Not only did Spot get a smile out of the ice queen in the nicest hotel in England – he got sincerity.

Not bad for a poor kid from Brooklyn.

"What you say we head up to the room now?" He smiles at her and hands her one of the key cards the front desk clerk had given them. She slips it into her purse.

Just as quickly as she had shriveled under the desk clerk's cold gaze, she blossoms under his approval.

They walk past the ornate staircase to pair of gilded elevator doors. He pushes the "up" button and they wait only a moment before the familiar _ding_ signals the opening of the doors. Once inside, Sarah is taken aback slightly by the fact that there is a man already inside of the elevator. He, like the bellhop, is in a red jacket and hat with gold tassels. The little pillbox hat on the top of his head is fastened securely under his chin with a gold strap. He is older, but it is clear in his youth he would have been attractive.

"Mr. Conlon." He states with recognition upon Spot's entrance.

"Mr. Hudson." Spot returns with surprising familiarity. "Good to see you." He nods and the older gentleman nods back. "Top floor, please." He politely commands and the man obeys.

Sarah feels like she should introduce herself as well just because of the familiarity, but instead she stays silent and awkwardly tries to find a place to keep her hands. Just who is this man that every knows by name even if they have never met him and why has he been here so many times that he is of such consequence? She knows he is rich, but maybe she has no idea just how rich he is.

The ride is swift and they exit after a quick goodbye to Mr. Hudson.

"We're at the end of the hall." Spot adjusts the laptop back on his shoulder as he points down to the end of a richly carpeted corridor.

The lighting is bright down the hallway, giving the gold wallpapered walls a near glow. Heavily framed portraits of people Sarah supposes are important hang prominently along their walk. It feels like they are watching them as they move, but she knows that it is just an illusion. Creepier things have happened, but she is having a hard enough time still believing she is actually in London without subscribing the haunted portrait theory.

When they get to their door, Spot swipes his keycard and there is a distinct _click_. He turns the handle and pushes it open. The lights are already on inside and with a sly smile – he gestures for her to enter first.

She does and… holy shit.

Holy shit.

It shouldn't surprise her that he has the nicest hotel room she has ever seen in her life, TV or otherwise, but it does. When she first enters – there is a large room with hard wood floors and a massive oriental rug in the center. It is a large, open floor plan. Directly in front of her, about fifteen feet away, a large round table and chair set sits along side large built-in bookcases filled with richly colored, hardbound books.

There is a sitting area directly to her right as they come in the door. Over stuffed arm chairs sit by a large fireplace. There are side tables for each chair, and then between them, in front of the fire place, there is a table with chess piece set up on top of it. It is intimate and cozy looking.

She wishes she knew how to play chess.

To her left there are huge windows that soar up towards the ceilings. Massive, heavy, red curtains hang in great swoops of decadent fabric. The brilliant color is offset by the gold rope and tassels used to hold the huge draperies in place.

Her eyes follow the windows upward to the ceiling. Instead of the same dark wood that encases most of the opulent room – there is a mural painted onto the ceiling. Clouds swirl and twirl across a light blue sky with cherubs darting amongst them. It looks like something Michelangelo would have included on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Again – her Art History teacher would be proud. From the center of it all – a giant golden chandelier with crystal ropes precisely draped over it looms proudly above them.

That's when she sees the stair case.

She has never been in a hotel room that has two different levels. She never even _knew_ that they made hotel rooms with two different floors. She knows now as she ascends the spiral stair case to find the loft bedroom. It is in the same dark mahogany that encases the rest of the suite. A huge four poster king-sized bed takes up a good deal of the space. Rich red curtains of heavy tapestry cover the windows and are tied up neatly on the posts of the bed with gold tasseled rope. The comforter is a plush, ornately decorated, red and gold masterpiece. There are more pillows on said bedspread than in most Bed, Bath & Beyond stores. It is breathtakingly expensive looking and staying in this room probably costs a pretty penny, but that doesn't matter.

Because Spot is paying.

Because Spot is a millionaire.

She has to be dreaming.

In the back of her mind she registers that their luggage has already been delivered. All of their bags sat on the floor next to the bed, but no one was attending them. She recalls the cute bellhop and wonders how he could have possibly gotten up here and out faster than they did. Possibly he recognized Spot and had anticipated his arrival? That tiny detail doesn't really matter to her right now, though.

She feels like royalty.

Even though there is a bathroom on the lower level – there is one here as well. This one is a full bath coming fully equipped with a large, claw foot bathtub and beautiful mosaic work for the floor. The tiny tessare pieces swirl together and curve into wave like patterns of gold, white and blue. It is a very tranquil pattern. Peaceful. She likes it.

This place looks something like a dream.

It is only when she looks in the mirror that she realized she hasn't stopped smiling since they landed and she looks absolutely ridiculous. Her hair looks like she has been through a hurricane, her clothes are rumpled and mussed, and there isn't a scrap of makeup on her face. She looks much more like the homeless people begging for money from the people who stay in places like this than the person who actually _is_ staying there. But she looks happy. She looks honest to goodness happy. She can't remember the last time she looked in the mirror and saw that.

"Like what you see?" It is Spot. She had gotten so caught up in the childlike wonder of this place that she had nearly forgotten that he is here with her, that is the entire reason that she is here.

"Yes." She wholeheartedly replies. "It is wonderful. I didn't know places this nice actually existed."

He laughs. It is clear that he has grown accustomed to this lifestyle and all the niceties that accompany it. Between that and his typically association with those others who are remarkably wealthy – her giddiness is amusing.

"It's a little late to go down for dinner, but we could order something up if you want." He suggest s as she runs her hand along the beautiful wood molding on the wall.

"What?" She breaks temporarily from her daze.

"Food. He says. "The kind you eat." He smirks and she gives him a look.

It isn't until then that she realizes that she is actually very hungry. Two cups of coffee and some dried fruit on the airplane suddenly are very unfulfilling and a very long time ago. It is about five o'clock in New York. It is near ten here in London. She is glad she didn't sleep on the plane or else it would be too difficult to get to sleep tonight. Then she looks over at Spot. He has gone to one of the ornately carved nightstands and is pulling out a leather bound book she assumes is a menu and realizes that she might _not_ want to sleep tonight. It had only been a few hours since she had joined the mile high club and already she wants him again. She can't believe how aware of her body and _his_ body she is. She remembers wanting Jack, but never like this.

Maybe it is because this just seems so wrong, so forbidden, and she has the feeling that it isn't going to last. It makes her feel naughty, rebellious, and sneaky. All these things are normally nothing she would be proud of. In fact they were all things she would readily seek to change, but now she can't think of any way she would rather be. She is being a bad girl. She, Sarah Esther Jacobs, the prime example of the prim and proper role model who never does what isn't supposed to do, is being a bad girl. It sends a thrill through her body every time she thinks of it.

"Order anything you want." Spot says and hands her the menu.

Dumbly, she accepts it. She has never had room service before and she wonders what they offered in a place like this. Opening the book, she looks and sees an overwhelming amount of options. Beef Tenderloin, Duck a la Ronge, Hamburger and Fries, Filet Mignon, King Crab, Grilled Cheese… there was anything and everything you could possibly want. Just reading the menu caused her stomach to protest loudly. She is starving.

Normally she takes forever to choose. She is normally the last person to order whenever she goes to a restaurant. She is sure he remembers that from when they would go on double dates with Jack and whatever arm candy Spot had at the time. It's been a long while since she has had the luxury of looking at a menu and now, she isn't going to be that indecisive girl.

"Fettuccini Alfredo, please." She says the first thing she sees that sounds appetizing.

She snaps shut the menu and hands it back to him succinctly. There is a pleased sparkle in his blue eyes. He is surprised at her swift decision, but then again, so is she. He reopens the leather binder and goes over the black, princess-style telephone and picks it up. She assumes that he is ordering their food and takes this opportunity to explore a bit more in their room. She is not disappointed in what she finds.

There is a walk in closer with shoe cubbies and an unbelievable amount of rack space in the same dark wood as the rest of the room with gold and burgundy detailing. There are more drawers to hold things than she could ever imagine bringing or even owning. The ceiling isn't a mural style like it is in the main room, but instead appears to be made of carefully molded gold tiles. She is fairly certain that it isn't real gold, but she has been wrong before and if there ever were a time in her life for the ceiling to be made out of precious metal – now is it.

She doesn't get much further in her exploring because Spot joins her in the closet carrying her large suitcase.

"Thought that if you were going to be in here you might as well have something to do." He drops the bag and it makes a loud _thump_.

"Thanks." She replies, but doesn't know what else to say.

"The food will be up in about thirty minutes." He informs. "Might as well get unpacked while you wait." He moves back from her luggage and steps out of the closet without another word.

Dumbly she stares at the large bag for a moment. She really is going to stay in the room with the amazingly huge closet, the painted ceiling, and two floors. She really is. This is her room. This is her closet. Distantly she wonders if Jessa has ever stayed in a room as nice as this one, but she is too ecstatic to let that thoughts weigh her down. She is in fucking London!

She is opening her bag when Spot comes in with his suit carrier.

"Hope you don't mind sharing." He gives her an almost wolfish grin.

"I think I can get used to it." She teases, remembering how many times she and her roommate had fought over their overly cramped closet. Yeah. She can deal with sharing.

She watches him hang his whole suit bag on the rack before unzipping it and starting to remove all of the beautifully tailored, designer suits one by one. One of those suits probably cost as much as her whole collection of clothes in her bag. Carefully she begins unpacking. "The" dress is on top and as much as she tries to be discreet in pulling it out and hanging it up – she can't help but notice Spot's approving glance at the plunging neckline. She blushes. She'd hoped that Jack would have looked at her like that, but she is glad that Spot appreciates the dress the way she'd hoped Jack would. It isn't the same, but it is nice. He hasn't even seen her _in_ the dress yet.

They are silent while unpacking, but it isn't uncomfortable. It is so familiar between the two of them. She chalks it up to the fact that they have known each other for over ten years even though there had been gaps in that decade plus, but still she had known him since before Jack. She knew him during Jack. And now she knows him after Jack. There is very little about her, her family, and her personal history that he doesn't know. Hell. They'd seen each other in braces.

When she looks back in her year books she can see him as a senior while she was a sophomore, but she doesn't have to settle for a picture now. All she has to do is look a few feet away to see, not some driven, slightly awkward high school student, but a fully mature, charismatic, millionaire man who has given her the chance of a lifetime. No. This person is a far cry from the brash, ambitious Brooklyn kid who didn't have money to put himself through college. She may know him, but there is still a lot she doesn't know about him.

For know – that is okay.

For now – for this week – that is okay.

It isn't like she is dumb enough to believe that he is going to keep her around forever. It isn't like she anticipates this being more than an impulsive fling on his part. She was there and available at the right place and the right time. Though, she does admit that it wouldn't be too hard to get used to this style of life.

She is done unpacking before he is. Figures. He has more things to unpack.

She lugs her empty bag over to the massive poster bed and shoves it underneath. Some things still hold true, even on the other side of the world. One of those things is that the space underneath beds is always the best place to hide things.

She climbs up on the bed and feels it sink beneath her weight. Either she has gained more weight in the past twelve hours than she thought possible (and considering her minimalist diet – she doubts it) or this is the most luxurious, cushy mattress she has ever encountered. She prefers to think it is the latter. Dramatically she flings herself down onto her back and feels the same delightful sinking. It is like the bed wants to absorb her and she completely fine with that. She has been aware all day that she was tired, but it never hit home more than in this instant. The whirlwind of giddiness subsides just enough, and the hunger and the travel have worn at her just to her breaking point, and she realizes just how great a nap sounds. There is no way in hell she is ever moving from this bed. Ever. Not for anything.

She isn't sure if she slept. If she did it was for only a brief, blissful instant. Maybe she had just slipped into a coma of overwhelmed disbelief. Which ever it is – the smell of food is what brings her to her consciousness. Delicious aromas waft into her nostrils, into her lungs, and instantly she is ravenous. Sitting up, she doesn't see the food, or Spot for that matter, anywhere. Is she so hungry that she was dreaming up food that isn't actually there? Yesterday she would have never doubted her sanity, but today, after everything that had happened, she was surprised at just how calm she was about the whole situation.

Begrudgingly she slides off the cloud bed and walks over to the balcony edge that shows off the main area below. There at the round meeting table were two silver trays holding two steaming entrees. The lids have been removed and the place settings are there, but there is no Spot anywhere to be seen. She is almost too hungry to care but she resolves to look for him first.

She turns quickly on her heel, ready to take a purposeful stride, when she is stopped abruptly by a very human road block. It is her initial reaction to scream, but recognition halts the sound in her throat. Instead a panicked squeak ekes its way from her lips and he chuckles at the noise.

"Dinner is ready, Sleeping Beauty." He grabs her hand and pulls her in the direction of the spiral staircase. A blush rises to her cheeks at his compliment. How long had she been out?

"I didn't hear you come up the stairs." She attempts to explain her less than dignified squeak. "You should be a spy."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"You'd never let me know enough to ever guess that you are." It is a quick response that makes him laugh, but she wonders how much truth there actually is to that statement.

In fact, the field of espionage fit the Patrick "Spot" Conlon lifestyle far more than the techno-geek millionaire image. Hell. He ever has an alias. Seriously though, who just jet sets out of the country for a week in their own personal jet? Well. Spot Conlon for one, and she really doesn't care as long as she is along for the ride.

He pulls her chair out for her. She vaguely remembers him doing that for all of his dates when they went on double dates. Jack always pulled out her chair when Spot was around, but never really any other time. She finds it slightly odd that Spot still does this, like she figured it was just an act like Jack's, but it isn't. She's okay with that, even if it does catch her off guard.

The food _is_ amazing. Her noodles are cooked perfectly and the creamy sauce explodes with a potent herb garlic taste. She has a hard time being dainty as she eats when all she wants to do is inhale every lat bite. Spot is having something that looks like the most amazing kabobs ever created. There are so many different colors of perfectly seared vegetables and generous chunks of beef all artistically strung together on gold skewers shaped like miniature swords. There is some sort of marinade on them, she can smell it, and it smells more than fantastic. Spot, however, is being reserved in his eating, and she _knows_ that he must be as hungry as she is.

So she holds back, taking smaller bites and drinking more water. She takes her time. So often back home her meals were rushed and frantic. Often at the restaurant where she worked – she would stand and scarf down a sandwich or some soup while still standing. Here, now, she can take her time. She can breathe and eat not just to fuel her body, but eat for the pure joy of eating. She isn't going to be called off break at work or have somewhere to be. Right now she has absolutely nothing that needs to be done except eat. And Spot. She most necessarily needs to do Spot.

"You are free to do whatever you will tomorrow during the day." Spot says after a few minutes of silent eating. "Tomorrow night we are having dinner with a few business friends, so don't make any plans." He informs her.

It isn't really until he says this that she understands that he isn't going to free all day to be with her. This may be a pleasure vacation for her, but there is a business trip for him. She is okay with that. She figures that she can do all sorts of touristy things, hopefully cheaply, or for free.

"If you need anything at all, charge it to this card." He hands her a Visa. How did he always know what she was thinking?

"I don't know if I can accept this." Sarah looks at the plastic wafer disbelievingly. Something tells her that she could go on an epic shopping spree and he would never bat an eye, but she won't. It isn't her style.

"You don't have to know anything. It is my pleasure." The way he says it makes her believe him. "Buy yourself some nice things. The shopping here is excellent." He tells her like she needs his permission, and in a way – she does.

"I wouldn't know where to go." She tries to put off his allowance in way to not offend his generosity.

"Go to the concierge desk. It is their job to make sure you have an entertaining time. If you don't – let me know and I will have them taken care of." He promises.

His words send a chill down her spine. How exactly _would_ he take care of it? It makes her a little nervous.

"I'm not going to have them killed, Sarah." He chuckles, and takes a drink. "Don't look at me like I would. I would simply strongly suggest to the management that the particular offending employee be moved to an area that better suits their talents." The way he phrases it is so diplomatic it hurts, but she still has visions of him in full spy mode, shooting poison darts into some poor, unsuspecting hotel worker's neck.

"How is your food?" she changes the subject, the credit care still resting conspicuously on the table beside her place setting.

"Fine." It is simple, short, and she knows that he means it completely.

Even though this food is substantially amazing to her palette – the thrill of gourmet dining may be lost to him by now.

And holy shit. This food is amazing. She tries her best to keep it cool, but she finds herself accelerating through the pasta until it is finally all gone. Inwardly she knows that her entrée had most likely contained a billion calories, but she was making up for a full day's deficit, right? That and who knows the next time she will have fettuccine this outstanding?

He is still eating.

"Are you excited for you business meetings?" She asks lamely. She has heard of corporate big shots who enjoy their work. Maybe he is one of them.

"As much as I look forward to any day of suck ups and brown nosers." The way he says it makes her belief that he actually does like it. "I enjoy my job." He answers her puzzled look. "You just have to realize that it is a game, and just like every other game, it is great as long as you are winning. I don't lose."

He looks at her now and she recognizes this intensity. It isn't dramatic or overdone. It isn't terribly cocky or self-confident. That doesn't keep her from feeling it all the way to her toes, however. Something in her knows that he doesn't lose. She can't remember a time where he lost. Ever. She can't remember him every losing anything in high school. Then again, she can't remember any thing that he ever did that he would lose at.

"So what is this trip about?" she watches him polish off the last of his kabobs.

"Just tying up a few loose ends." He answers cryptically. "Do you even know what my company does?" he is smirking and leans back in his chair.

"Something with the internet?" she knows she sounds stupid. It isn't intentional. It just comes naturally.

"ConlonCom is a web design consulting group." He explains. "We take shitty websites and tell people how to turn them into gold." He runs his tongue over his teeth. "And if they want to use our design they have to pay us even more money to have one of our sit developers actually build it and maintain it."

She doesn't even know the beginning of what is required to make a website, much less make it look decent. The extent of her web design knowledge is limited to her short-lived, ill-fated affair with a Myspace account. Complete with a glittery banner of her name, flowers floating across the browser, a scrolling series of pictures of Kid Blink, and way too much personal information – it had been a desperate move on her part to meet new people after Jack and Jessa went public. Nothing had come of it except a few internet creepers asking to trade nude photos. That and the realization that besides copy and pasting HTML codes into their appropriate places and selecting options from drop down menus – she was absolutely clueless when it came to the technical side of the internet. She knows that it must be difficult, but she still doesn't understand how exactly that can make a person a multi-millionaire.

"We also provide consulting functions for businesses in other departments besides their website. We mainly focus on internal control measures, and large scale tech help like setting up a five hundred computer network." He elaborates. "And that is just the functions that ConlonCom provides. We have several other subsidies that are under the family umbrella of ConlonCom that do a variety of things."

She is not quite sure what he is saying. It all sounds very grand and wonderful, and she wishes with her whole heart that she had a clue what half of it meant, but she is jet-lagged and severely saturated with amazing food. The chemical balance in her body has made her so relaxed that she literally was having trouble focusing. Holy shit. Is she happy?

Spot chuckled deep in his throat in a way that made her shiver and she looks at him.

"The topic of my business will, unfortunately, dominate a lot of the conversation for the next few nights at dinner. Let's talk about something much more interesting – like dessert." He suggests and reached to a previously neglected silver dome covered tray that Sarah had not noticed.

There is dessert? She is, yet again, surprised though she should not be. He pulls the covered tray over between them and lifts the shiny lid. Ho. Lee. Shit. Underneath is the biggest, most decadent looking piece of tiramisu she has ever seen in her life. The immaculately layered desert is sprinkled with the traditional shaved bittersweet chocolate. A strawberry cut to look like a flower is perched on top along side of two multi-hued chocolate triangles wedged artistically into the dessert to make a resting place for the strawberry flower. Along the edges, there is an effortless swirling of red gel like substance. Two forks lay on either side of the massive delicacy.

"This looks amazing!" Sarah exclaims in spite of herself. When is she going to stop sounding like a total idiot?

"I hope that you like tiramisu." He smirks at her reaction.

Who doesn't like tiramisu? Sarah had always been of the mindset that dessert should always be eaten on an empty stomach in order to fully appreciate them. Her mother hadn't appreciated that reasoning back when she was a kid, but now that she was "grown up" she was sure to follow her own rule most of the time. This, however, was one of those times she would be more than okay with breaking her code.

She picks up her fork and is ready to dig in when she realizes that Spot has beaten her to it. He has a good sized bite on his fork and is extending it to her slowly. Instinctively she opens her mouth and accepts the bite that he offers. It melts in her mouth. The potent mixture of the espresso flavoring and the rich marscapone cheese explode in a pleasing torture to her senses. She savors its creamy texture against her tongue and delights in the way it slides down her palette. Food should not be allowed to be this good. The experience of eating the food was only heightened by the fact that Spot had fed it to her.

Once she swallows – she knows it is her turn to feed him. He waits patiently for her as she fights off all the nerves in her body. Oh please. Oh please. Oh please. All she wants is for it to go into his mouth and not somewhere else. She isn't too terribly concerned with being overly seductive or overtly sensual in this moment. All she wants is for the many layered desert to stay on her fork long enough to get into his mouth.

It works. She reaches her target without a single crumb being dropped and she puts a mental gold star on her board of accomplishments. Damn. She is good.

Then it is his turn again. She'd seen couples feed each other in movies and read about it in books. She'd even had the gross misfortune of witnessing it in public a few times. It had always kind of disgusted her or at the very least seemed unappealing. She'd tried it with Jack, but it had seemed forced. Probably because it was. This, right now, feels spontaneous. Probably because it is. This, right now, feels erotic in its own strange way. It is hard to pin down exactly what it is about this instant that is so damn sexy, maybe it is just the company, but she is okay with never feeding herself again as long as Spot is around.

They've gotten a fairly good rhythm established. It is his turn to feed Sarah and he progresses with his normal calm assertion. Then something happens. It isn't clear exactly what. Perhaps Sarah leans forward a bit too far, or Spot knocked his elbow on the table ever so slightly, or the piece of tiramisu was just off balance to begin with. Whatever the reason – the bite of heaven slips off the fork and falls right onto Sarah's shirt.

It is awkward for just one moment as the suicidal tiramisu rolls from her chest to her lap in an unceremonious plop. Spot looks a little surprised, if not slightly bemused by the situation. Sarah doesn't exactly know what to think. She is pretty sure this wasn't supposed to happen and she is also pretty sure that they can't just continue their exchanges when she is wearing their last attempt. Thankfully, Spot intervenes before she has to say a single word.

"Let me help you with that." He takes his napkin and moves to the place where the dessert had landed on her shirt.

The offensive treat had left a large splotch directly on the top curve of her right breast. Delicately he rubs at the stain. He moves in so closely that she can feel the heat of his breath through her shirt. He gets the majority of the mess off of her shirt before he moves to the glob that still sits in the wedge where her two thighs meet. Again it is butterfly light strokes that leave her tingling. Every time he touches her is electric, and this is no exception.

"We should probably get you out of these clothes so we can get this washed." He suggests mildly as she stands, discards his napkin on the table and offers her his hand.

His voice is subdued, but his eyes are anything but. She knows exactly what he means even if he doesn't come out directly and say it. The dinner, the dessert, the clean-up routine, and now the seduction – she is already ready for him.

All too willingly she takes his hand and allows him to lead her up the spiral staircase to their loft style bedroom. It isn't hurried, but it is purposeful. By the time she is at the top of her stairs, all of her clothes are _gone_. She doesn't know exactly how that happened, but she is more than willing to return the favor. She knows exactly what he is doing and where this is going and she can't say that she really has a problem with that idea.

Sex in London is just as good, if not better than, sex in New York City.

The cloud bed absorbs them both as they meld into one another. His eyes never leave her face and it is hard to not be self conscious about it.

He is whispering things in her ears that she can't understand, but not in the same way she can't understand his business. They are in a different language. She doesn't know what language it is, but it is beautiful. She doesn't know what he is saying, but the way he says it sends chills through her whole body. If what he is actually saying is anything close to what she is imagining him saying – then they are both going to burn in hell.

That is if she doesn't spontaneously combust right here right now.

Yeah.

She could definitely get used to this.

* * *

**A/N**: Well we are in London now. What kind of adventures could await our couple there? Well. We might never know because I never know if I am going to continue this or not. I feel kind of bad for you as the reader since I honestly don't know if I want to update this again, but then again, this might get finished before _Loving Brooklyn_. Stranger things have happened, my friends. Stranger things have happened.


End file.
